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The Hill of the Ravens 

By 
//♦ A Coving ion 



Tliis book is a work of fiction. PLi^c*. ovonu.. and situations in this 
story are purely fictional- An? resemblance to actual persona, living 

or deed., is coincidental. 



©2003 by H. A, Covington. All rights reserved. 

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, 
or transmitted by any means, demonic, median ical, photocopying, 
recording, or otherwise, without written permission front (lie author. 

ISBN; 1 -4 l07-65frl-X (e-book) 

ISBN: 1 -41G7-6560-1 (Paperback) 

1 SBN : 1 -4 1 G7-6562-8 (Dust Jacket) 



This book is printed on acid free paper 



IstBooks - rev. 06/19/03 



To those irfot shall wtme after: 
Frotttthe Time of 'Struggle, we greet you. 



A Glossary of Northwest 
Acronyms and Terms 



A Mighty Fortress Is Our God - Christian hymn 
originally written in German by Martin Luther. The national 
anthem of the Northwest American Republic. 

ASU - Active Service Unit. The basic building block of the 
NVA paramilitary structure. Generally speaking, an active 
service unit was any team or affinity group of Northwest 
Volunteers engaged in armed struggle against the United States 
government. The largest active service units during the War of 
Independence were the Flying Columns (q.v.) that moved across 
the countryside in open insurrection. These could sometimes 
number as many as 75 or even 100 men. More usual was the 
urban team or crew ranging from four or five to no more than a 
dozen Volunteers. After a unit grew larger than seven or eight 
people, the logistics of movement and supply and also the risk of 
betrayal reached unacceptably high levels, and the cell would 
divide in two with each half going its separate way. Command 
and coordination between the units was often tenuous at best. 
The success and survival of an active service unit was often a 
matter of the old Viking adage: "Luck often enough will save a 
man. if his courage hold." 

Aztlan - A semi-autonomous province of Mexico 
consisting of the old American states of southern and western 
Texas. Arizona. New Mexico. Utah, parts of Colorado, and 
southern California below a line roughly parallel with the 
Mountain Gate border post. 

BATF - Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms division of the 
United States Treasury Department. Used by the government in 
Washington D. C. unlawfully to suppress many early right wing 
and racial nationalist groups and individuals. Unlike its more 



sophisticated counterpart the FBI. BATF seldom resorted to such 
things as bribery, fabrication, or forgery to get convictions. All 
brawn and no brain. BATF simply smashed their way into the 
homes of dissidents such as Kenyon Bellew and David Koresh 
and started shooting. Many of their agents later became Fatties 
when the FATPO (q. v.) superceded the old ATF organization at 
the beginning of the War of Independence. BATF was declared a 
criminal organization by Parliament and any surviving members 
are subject to arrest, trial, and punishment if apprehended. 

The Beast - Term similar in meaning to ZOG (q. v.) used 
initially by Christian Identity people to describe the Federal 
government of the United States and the Zionist, liberal power 
structure in general. The expression later came into more 
widespread use among the Northwest American Republic's non- 
CI population. 

Brigade - In the paramilitary organization of the 
Northwest Volunteer Army, a loose combination of most or all of 
the partisan units assigned to a specific geographic area. In the 
larger cities of the Homeland such as Seattle or Portland or 
Spokane there might be as many as two or three brigades, each 
operating independently of the others, so that a single 
catastrophic betrayal or Federal assault could not wipe out the 
NVA in that metropolitan area. A brigade could comprise as 
many as two or three dozen active service units of various kinds 
and strengths, including technical, supply, and support teams. 
Some of the smaller brigades covering larger and more rural 
areas only had a few units. In actual practice there was always an 
immense amount of confusion and overlap in membership and 
function between units. As is the case with any conflict, nothing 
about the War of Independence was ever as neatly cut and dried 
as the Republic's history books have portrayed. 



BOSS - Bureau of State Security. The Republic's political 
police. The mission of BOSS may be summed up simply in the 
five words of its motto: "We will never go hack. " Don Redmond 
pithily summarizes that mission when he says. "The revolution is 
forever. Our job is to make sure of that." 

CI - Christian Identity. By the time of writing of this 
book, the predominant Christian religious movement in the 
Republic. The faith of Pastor Richard Butler. Robert Miles, and 
many others among the founding fathers of the Northwest 
American Republic. The essence of Christian Identity is the 
transfer of God's Biblical covenant from the Jewish people to the 
Gentile or Aryan peoples through the medium of the Christ's 
Passion and the Crucifixion. In most Christian Identity sects this 
transfer is accompanied by a very complex (sometimes 
downright tortuous) theological construct whereby white people 
are alleged to be racial descendants of the Israelites of the Bible 
through the alleged wanderings of the Lost Tribes through 
Europe. Denmark being descended from the Tribe of Dan. etc. 
However tenuous the historical and theological basis for 
Christian Identity, there can be no doubt of the spiritual 
strength and personal integrity which the CI faith imparts to its 
adherents. During the Time of Struggle and ever since, they have 
been the very backbone of the Northwest nation. 

Centcom - During the War of Independence. Centeom 
was the central command authority of the American occupation 
forces, consisting of representatives from the executive and 
judicial branches of government, the FBI. Justice Department. 
Department of Homeland Security, etc. 

Code Duello - The official protocols and procedures 
governing dueling within the Republic, administered by the 
National Honor Court. The purpose of the Code Duello is to 
make sure that the ultimate sanction for personal misbehavior is 



available to all the Republic's citizens, but only under very clear 
and formally recognized conditions. Ref. the Old Man: "One of 
the problems under ZOG was that there was no longer any 
penalty attached to being an asshole. There needs to be." 

Come Home - To immigrate to the Northwest American 
Republic. Since the NAR is the Homeland of all Indo-European 
peoples, a white immigrant from anywhere in the world is 
considered to have Come Home. 

Daryl And His Other Brother Daryl - Defamatory 
term used by certain white migrants to the Homeland during 
pre-revolutionary times to denote white people born in rural 
areas of the Northwest. Considered rude, boorish, and highly 
discouraged by the Party both before and since the revolution. 

DHS - Department of Homeland Security. One of the 
many overlapping Federal political police agencies created under 
Bush 11 as part of the suspension of the United States 
Constitution and the abrogation of American civil liberties which 
took place after the events of September 11 th , 2001. The 
Department of Homeland Security seems to have done little 
during the time of the revolution beyond adding to the 
confusion. 

DM - "Drooling Moron." Defamatory term used by certain 
white migrants during the pre-revolutionary times to denote 
white people born in rural areas of the Northwest Homeland. 
Always frowned upon and discouraged by the Party. Several legal 
cases are now before the National Honor Court to decide 
whether "DM" is to be considered a killing word or not. 

E & E - Escape and Evasion. Associated with General 
Order Number Eight, a.k.a. the "Feets Don't Fail Me Now" order. 
When an operation went bad. or when confronted with a Federal 
ambush, extreme danger, or overwhelming enemy numbers, 



every NVA Volunteer had a personal Escape and Evasion plan, a 
series of refuges and safe houses etc. to which they would flee 
and from which they would subsequently regroup. The 
underlying rationale of General Order Number Eight was the 
ancient one of all guerrilla forces: he who fights and runs away, 
lives to fight another day. 

FATPO - Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization. A 
body of special auxiliary police officers recruited by the United 
States government to suppress the revolution in the Pacific 
Northwest, after the FBI and local authorities had clearly lost 
control and it was not deemed politically expedient to use the 
regular military in a significant role. FATPOs were mostly 
recruited from discharged members of the United States 
military, local police departments, and from both sides of the 
bars within the American empire's immense prison system. 
FATPOs were given a short but intensive training campaign at 
Fort Bragg combining counterinsurgency. commando and 
SWAT-team style tactics, along with heavy political 
indoctrination in diversity, multiculturalism. etc. Nominally 
subject to the Department of Homeland Security and the Justice 
Department, in reality the government in D. C. was far away, and 
a blind eye was turned. Local FATPO commanders had a blank 
check and more or less operated as independent warlords in 
their districts, above the law so long as they produced a plentiful 
white body count. Discipline and control from Centcom was 
patch}' at best, accountability was nil. atrocities frequent, media 
reporting of those atrocities almost nonexistent, and any serious 
military purpose or strategy quickly disappeared. The FATPOs in 
short order became nothing more than gangs of brutal gun thugs 
devoted to the bloody suppression of the NYA and an}" white 
citizen of the Northwest whom they so much as suspected might 
be sympathetic to the NVA. Strict policies of affirmative action 
and mandatory diversity were applied, so at any given time the 
force was only about 35% white and perhaps 25% white male. 
There was an unknown but significant percentage of lesbian and 



homosexual sadists who mainly operated in the intelligence 
units of FATPO as interrogators, and who earned themselves a 
reputation as some of the most cruel and vicious torturers in the 
history of human tyranny. 

FBI - Federal Bureau of Investigation. The American 
secret police. Still extant, although now less involved in 
Northwest affairs than their rivals of the Office of Northwest 
Recovery (q. v.) Declared a criminal organization by Parliament 
after independence. Any member of the FBI or anyone assisting 
the FBI is liable to arrest, trial, and punishment under the law of 
the Republic. 

Flying Column - During the War of Independence, an 
independent unit of partisans numbering approximately thirty to 
a hundred Volunteers. These guerrilla units were based in rural 
areas throughout the Pacific Northwest, and operated in the 
countryside and small towns. They were highly mobile and 
conducted operations against the American forces, against the 
means of production, and cleared their operational areas of 
American law enforcement, judicial, and governmental 
institutions to make way for Aryan courts, police, and 
government. Because of the activities of the Flying Columns, the 
United States eventually lost control of the countryside almost 
completely and could maintain its authority only in the cities, 
and there only through repressive force. There were over thirty 
Flying Columns during the course of the War of Independence. 
The most famous among them were the Olympic Flying Column 
(Cmdt. Thomas J. Murdock); the Port Townsend Flying Column 
(Cmdt. John C. Morgan); the Hayden Lake Flying Column 
(Cmdt. O. C. Oglevy); the Barbary Pirates (Areata and Eureka. 
California district, Cmdt. Phil McDevitt); the Sawtooth Flying 
Column (Cmdt. Winston Wayne); the Corvallis Flying Column 
(Cmdt. Billy Basquine); the Montana Regulators (Cmdt. Jack 
Smith); and the Ellensburg Flying Column (Cmdt. David "Bloody 
Dave" Leach.) 



Goots - Derogatory and defamatory term used by native- 
born white people in the Northwest for racially conscious Aryan 
settlers who came into the Homeland during pre-revolutionary 
times. Origin unknown but possibly originated with Seattle disc 
jockey Ray Sheckstein. 

GUBU - Grotesque. Unbelievable. Bizarre. 
Unprecedented. Slang term used to describe most activities of 
the Aryan resistance movement prior to the advent of the 
Northwest Migration concept, and regrettably for some time 
after that as well. Northwest equivalent of old American military 
term SNAFU. 

GW - Kinetic energy firearms named after the renowned 
Texas gunsmith and engineer Gary Wilkerson. who invented the 
kinetic energy plate wherein the bullet is not propelled by a 
gunpowder-charged cartridge, but by a kinetic energy pulse from 
a metal power grid in the receiving group or bolt assembly of the 
weapon. Wilkerson KE technology is the basis of most NDF (q. v.) 
small arms. 

Hats or Hat Squad - Semi-derogatory, pre- 
revolutionary term used by native-born white Northwesters for 
Aryan settlers who answered the Old Man's call for migration. 
Refers to the eventual adoption of the fedora hat as a badge or 
insignia for Northwest settlers, at first of the Christian Identity 
faith, then later on the practice spread to migrants of all faiths. 

Longview Conference - The conference wherein the 
United States agreed to withdraw from the areas of the 
Northwest Homeland deemed to be "administratively 
untenable," i.e. effectively under NVA control. At that point in 
time this consisted of the states of Idaho. Oregon. Washington, 
parts of western Montana, parts of northern California, and most 
of Wyoming. 



NAR - Northwest American Republic. Established as a 
worldwide home for all persons of unmixed Aryan, that is to say 
Caucasian. non-Semitic. European descent. The Northwest 
American Republic presently consists of the entire states of 
Idaho, Oregon, Washington, and Wyoming as well as hefty 
chunks of northern California, western Montana, Alberta. British 
Columbia and Alaska. 

National Socialism - The racial and geopolitical world 
view (Weltanschaung in German) of the philosopher, soldier and 
statesman Adolf Hitler (1889-1945). 

NBA - Northwest Broadcasting Authority. State body in 
charge of all broadcast communications and entertainment in 
the Northwest American Republic. 

NDF - Northwest Defense Force. The combined land, sea, 
air and space commands of the NAR military. All white male 
citizens of the Republic are required to serve in the NDF for a 
minimum of two years of active duty plus reserve requirements 
up until age 50. 

NLS - National Labor Service. There is no welfare as such 
in the Northwest American Republic. Neither is there any 
unemployment. If no private sector jobs are available in a 
particular field or locality, the Labor Service steps in and 
provides employment, usually on public works of various kinds. 
Many Northwest citizens choose to work for the NLS voluntarily. 

NVA - Northwest Volunteer Army. Formed on October 
22 nd in Coeur dAlene. Idaho, in response to the murder of the 
Singer family. Predecessor to the NDF. 

OBA - Old Believers Association. The official organization 
of non-Christian religious groups in the Northwest American 



Republic, including Asatru. the proto-NS Nordic Faith 
Movement, and some elements of Wicca and Druidic occultism. 

Old Man - Early advocate of Northwest Migration and 
independence. Helped found the Party (q. v.) and served as a 
convenient figurehead for the independence movement during 
the War of Independence, although he always considered his role 
in the revolution to be very much exaggerated. Served two terms 
as State President and was able to stabilize and consolidate the 
gains of the revolution, but was effectively removed from power 
by President Patrick Brennan and the Pragmatic Tendency in 
Parliament because he was thought to be a dangerously radical 
relic of the past. Presently President Emeritus of the Republic 
and living in seclusion. Suffers from dementia praecox due to his 
advanced age and is generally confused and incoherent. Has 
issues with ducks. 

ONR - The United States Office of Northwest Recovery. 
Covert agency of the United States government devoted to the 
long term goal of returning the Northwest American Republic to 
the United States and Canada respectively. Regularly conducts 
assassinations, sabotage, and other subversive activities within 
the Northwest American Republic. 

Operation Strikeout - Twelve years after the Longview 
Conference, the United States and Canada, in conjunction with 
the United Nations, launched what the}' believed to be a surprise 
attack against the Northwest Republic, intending the re-conquer 
the Pacific Northwest and return the Homeland to American 
imperial rule. Due to superior intelligence on the part of BOSS 
(q. v.) and the War Prevention Bureau (q. vj. the attack was not 
the surprise that the Pentagon thought it would be. The 
Americans and Canadians were decisively defeated in a 
campaign lasting forty-six days and large sections of northern 
California. Alberta. British Columbia and Alaska were added to 
the Republic's territory. 



Party - The fighting revolutionary Party of Northwest 
independence founded by the Old Man. once a sufficient number 
of racially aware migrants had arrived in the Homeland to effect 
a significant socio-political demographic change sufficient to 
make such a Part} feasible. Although the Party was comprised in 
the majority of people who were native-born in the Northwest, it 
was made possible by the influx of racially aware migrants who 
listened to the Old Man's call and heeded it. Based upon the 
principles of National Socialism as expressed in the Cotswolds 
Declaration of 1962 and the Ten Principles of National Socialist 
Thought, yet offering a broad program of tolerance and 
participation for all Aryan religious and political tendencies. The 
Part} provided the political leadership for the revolution, while 
the NYA provided the military capability. 

Rockwell, Commander George Lincoln (1918-1967) - 

American National Socialist leader. Founder of the American 
Nazi Part} and the World Union of National Socialists. 

Shock and Awe - A customary tactic for NVA partisans 
lying in wait to ambush Federal troops, police, news media, or 
other enemy personnel. The concealed Volunteers would 
suddenly explode in a precisely aimed, concentrated hail of 
gunfire on full automatic or other rapid fire technique, using 
armor piercing bullets, rocket propelled grenades (RPGs). etc. 
The object was to inflict as much damage as possible in the 
opening seconds of an encounter, disorienting and disabling 
enemy reaction, before a rapid withdrawal under cover of smoke 
grenades or other stratagems. Also known as the Mad Minute. 

Spuckies - Derogatory and defamatory term used by 
local white people in the Northwest to denote racially conscious 
white settlers who came into the Homeland during pre- 
revolutionary times. Origin of this term unknown. 



SS - Special Service. The NAR and the Party's elite 
military formation. Drawn from the top achievers of all the NDF 
branches, with naval, air. and space mobile wings. Highly 
trained and equipped with the most advanced equipment, the SS 
deliberately follows the traditions of its historic namesake of the 
Third Reich. The corps seeks to erase all differences and 
divisions of class, religion, and nationality, creating a true Aryan 
"Band of Brothers". For this purpose, extensive political and 
racial education based on the principles of National Socialism is 
part and parcel of SS training and qualification. 

Stukach - A Russian term meaning informer, dating from 
the time of Stalin and the hideous purges of the 1930s. How 
exactly this term entered the lexicon of the Northwest American 
Republic is not certain. When applied to the family or person of 
a citizen, it is considered the ultimate insult, along with the 
words "whigger" and "attorney." All three are considered to be 
killing words, i.e. prima facie casus belli under the law of the 
Republic for a duel to the death if the parties involved cannot be 
reconciled by formal procedures under the Code Duello. 

Take The Gap - Broadly speaking, to Come Home. To 
immigrate to the Northwest American Republic. In practice, to 
"take the gap" generally connotes an illegal entry into the 
Homeland from the United States, Aztlan, Canada, or sometimes 
by air. "Taking the gap" often involves physically running the 
border under Mexican or American gunfire and pursuit. 

Tickle - An operati on of the N orthwest Vol unteer Army agai nst 
a Federal or Zionist target under cover of smoke grenades or other 
strategems. Also known as the Mad Minute. 

Volunteer - A male or female soldier of the Northwest 
Volunteer Army. 



Whigger - "White nigger." A defamatory term for whites 
during the pre-revolutionary time who aped the mannerisms and 

subculture of blacks. Considered to be a killing word in the NAR, 
i.e. sufficient casus belli for a duel to the death if no compromise 
can be reached between the parties involved. 

Woodchuck - Originally a term with defamatory and 
derogatory connotations used by Aryan settlers in the Homeland 
to denote those who were born in the Northwest, especially rural 
areas. Now transmuted and claimed as a proud and honorable 
designation by those born in the Homeland. 

WPB - The NAR's War Prevention Bureau. A covert 
agency designed to prevent the necessary military, political, and 
psychological conditions from developing within the United 
States. Aztlan. or anywhere else that might lead to a serious 
military threat to the existence of the Northwest Republic, 
through the use of targeted assassination and other black ops. 
The WPB is also responsible for tracking down and liquidating 
spies and traitors to the Northwest Republic, including 
informers and traitors from the time of the War of the 
Independence. Their motto in German is Alles wird abgerechnet. 
"All accounts will be settled." 

ZOG - Zionist Occupation Government. Term originally- 
created by the obscure National Socialist writer Eric Thomson in 
the 1970s. Strictly construed, ZOG means the Federal 
government of the United States. In actual usage it is a much 
more all-embracing term meaning the System, the 
Establishment, the generic "them" used by oppressed peoples to 
denote the Federal tyrant. 



The Foggy Dew 



The Foggy Dew 

It was down the glen one autumn morn 

From Coeur d'Alene drove I. 

There armed lines of marching men 

In squadrons passed me by. 

No pipe did hum, no battle drum 

Did sound its dread tattoo. 

But a lone ship's bell on lake's dark swell 

Rang out in the foggy dew. 



The Hill of the Ravens 



I. 



The rebels were all dead by six-thirty in the morning. 

The summer sun had just risen in the east over the 
distant, snow-capped mountains of Washington. Pockets of mist 
nestled in the low ground, and beaded droplets of moisture still 
clung to the blades of grass and the green leaves on the nearby 
forest floor. The long sloping hillside glistened with dazzling 
pinpoints of reflected light from the dewdrops. The echoes of the 
machine gun fire and the RPG explosions died away, leaving only 
the hanging reek of cordite and the metallic smell of hot brass 
from thousands of ejected cartridge casings. Black smoke rose 
into the still morning air from the burning vehicle hulks on the 
road, and when a soft breeze sprang up it carried the sizzling 
stench of burning rubber and charred flesh into the American 
firing positions. There was a long silence, and then the birds 
started to sing again. 

The commanding officer of the ambush scanned the kill 
zone with his field glasses. Major Woodrow Coleman of the 
Federal Anti-Terrorist Police Organization was a very black man 
with thick lips and a bristly, dirty-looking beard of short curly 



H. A. Covington 

whiskers. He was immensely pleased with what he saw in his 
binoculars. He knew now that he had been right not to call in air 
support. The sight of a single helicopter, even high up, would 
have caused the enemy to abandon their vehicles, break up and 
head for the timber, where long experience had taught the 
Americans it was most unwise to pursue them. This way the 
surprise had been total. The guerrillas in the two vans had been 
roasted alive when the vehicles exploded from the rocket- 
propelled grenades and the mines, but the ones in the open truck 
had managed to roll out with amazing speed and discipline. The 
only retreat for the rebels from the road and the spitting Federal 
gun muzzles had been up the rocky slope pre-laid with radio- 
detonated Claymore mines, and their only cover had been a few 
scraggly pines. Falling into squads, they had moved swiftly up 
the hillside with their own weapons blazing, right into the 
strings of anti-personnel mines that cut them down. Caught off 
guard even as they had been, Jerry Reb had made a fight of it. 
From the radio chatter in his earphone the CO knew that some of 
his own men were down. Even under the sheets of automatic 
weapons fire and the shredding shrapnel, the partisans had 
proven to be cool heads and crack shots. "It's those damned 
teflon-tipped bullets again, Major!" squawked his chief medic in 
his ear. "They go through kevlar like a hot knife through butter! 
Where the hell do they keep getting those damned teflon slugs?" 
Coleman didn't answer. Right now he didn't care, such 
was his savage joy at the carnage, at a lifetime of burning hatred 
at last fulfilled and slaked, his cup of revenge against the hated 
white man running over. It looked like the ambush had gotten 
them all. He could see dozens of the rebels who were down now. 
not moving, littering the hillside like crimson lumps of meat, 
twists of dirty laundry splattered in the dirt. "Alpha and Bravo 
teams, move in! Approach with caution," he said into his radio 
mike dangling before his lips. "Stay spaced, don't lump together, 
stay alert! Do not assume all of them are dead or disabled. Make 
sure! Blast anything that moves up there. Check out the kill zone 



The Hill of the Ravens 

and terminate any remaining wounded, but from where I sit I'd 
say that's a wrap, boys and girls. We finally nailed these racist 
motherfuckers, and it's about fucking time! So let's all have 
ourselves a good look at what dead members of the Master Race 
look like, whaddya say?" 

Over a hundred and fifty FATPOs rose silently from their 
positions, heavy lumbering shapes in camouflage weighed down 
by kevlar and Bakelite body armor. They earned outlandish 
weapons bristling with odd scopes and plastic attachments, and 
their equipment creaked and rattled. They shambled up the hill 
in a waddling gait, hunched low to the ground, clanking and 
rattling like medieval knights, guns at the ready and nervous 
fingers on triggers. There was no motion on the hillside. 

One by one they surrounded and prodded and stared at 
the bodies of the rebels. Some of the corpses were big men in 
denim jeans and work shirts crossed with ammo belts, their 
jutting beards and glassy eyes thrusting into the sky. final snarls 
on their dead lips. Some were ordinary looking guys with blood- 
soaked baseball caps bespeaking a head wound from a sniper or 
one of the fragmentation mines that had been hidden in the trees 
and rocks of the slope and blown when the rebels began their 
fighting retreat uphill. A few were women, their hair blown from 
under their caps and now soggy with their own blood. The 
Jerries" weapons were motley. There were some Uzis and 
Heckler-Koch sub-machineguns. and there were a good many M- 
16s captured from the Federal forces, as well as hunting rifles 
and a few Kalashnikovs possibly smuggled home from 
Afghanistan or Iraq or Saudi Arabia by the rebels who were 
veterans of the U. S. military. There were homemade grenade 
launchers adapted from single-barrel shotguns, and stick 
grenades turned out in some secret workshop in Spokane or 
Tacoma. The FATPOs scuttled up to each body in turn, 
hesitantly, almost superstitiously. still afraid, still unable to 
believe that this time they had won. Time and again over the 
past fourteen months, the NVA had killed hundreds of their 



H. A. Covington 

comrades. On more than one occasion this very crew had 
reduced them to a shameful, panic-stricken rout in carefully laid 
and ferociously fought ambushes and night attacks on their 
camps and barracks. But this time the>' were the ones who were 
caught. Caught and annihilated. In a single mad minute the 
FATPOs had cut loose with everything they had. The}' had 
pumped over twenty thousand rounds and dozens of rockets 
onto the hillside, not to mention the mines they'd planted. The 
body of every dead rebel was shredded and mangled. 

Finally the lumbering behemoths in the creaking body 
armor found the two corpses they wanted most to see dead. The 
man was powerfully built, with red hair and a heavy flowing 
moustache. His eyes and facial features had been obliterated, 
only the moustache rising slightly above a mess of goo. "He must 
have caught a 50-caliber right in the face." muttered one of the 
Federal troopers. The big man's slouch hat had been knocked 
twenty feet away where it lay on the ground. One of the police 
ripped open his shirt and jerked it off his bleeding body, 
exposing his arms. "Viking female tattoo on right bicep. 
Confederate flag and horseman on left forearm." radioed another 
of the men. "This is Murdock. We got the bastard, sir." 

"Out... fucking... STANDING!" growled the major, lumbering 
up beside them, unable to wait any longer to see it all for himself 
close up. "And what about that skank blondie ho' of his?" 

"Her too." The girl in camouflage fatigues lay on her side, 
her cornsilk hair trailing over her extended right arm. Her eyes 
were closed, and she looked almost like she was sleeping. The tip 
of her dead fingers just touched the grip of her AK-47. The Feds 
had to bend down and look closely to see where the back of her 
head had been blown away. 

"That's Melanie Young." said one of the officers, a young 
white man who took off his helmet to reveal a military buzz cut. 
"I recognize her from her file photos." The black major laughed 
aloud in pure joy and viciously kicked the dead girl's body, once, 



The Hill of the Ravens 

twice, three times. "Is that really necessary, sir?" demanded the 
young white trooper. 

"Got a problem with a brother dissin' white women, Mac? 
Maybe you want I should tap dance and shuffle a bit for the poor 
dead missy? You want a little session with Internal Affairs down 
at the Homeland Security lockup in Bremerton. Mr. McBride?" 
snarled the major. 

"No sir." replied McBride woodenly. 

"Then shut you mouf. I wanna kick this bitch in her dead 
racist ass. I kick the bitch. I wanna check out her titties. I'll do 
that too. Got it?" Coleman suited his actions to his words, 
leaning down and slapping her face, ripping open her camo shirt 
to expose and leer at her blood-dripping breasts. 

"I got it, sir." McBride looked away, up over the small 
valley that was now lighting up as the sun rose higher in the sky. 
He got it. all right. The fog and the dew? were burning away in 
the sunlight, and so were the last of his doubts. McBride knew 
this was it. He'd put up with everything else. He'd put up with 
the torture in the interrogation centers, the mass deportations of 
whole communities, the bulldozing of family homes, the pass 
laws, the closures and checkpoints. He had put up with the 
suspension of habeas corpus and the secret military tribunals, 
the brutalization of people he considered to be fellow Americans. 
He'd looked the other way, pretended it was necessary to save 
lives, told himself that the people he helped to victimize were 
terrorists or terrorist sympathizers, racists and Nazis, less than 
human. He had told himself time and again that the racial bond 
between himself and the people he daily victimized and beat 
down did not matter, did not even exist, even as his own heart 
told him it was a lie, that they were of his own blood. But this 
was it. Coleman's kicking and violating the dead girl's shattered 
body was the straw that broke the camel's back. She had been 
young, she had been beautiful, and she had been a passionate 
and dangerous enemy. McBride was perfectly well aware that she 
would have killed him without a moment's hesitation had she 



H. A. Covington 

ever gotten the chance, but now that he saw her dead he could 
not bring himself to feel hatred or triumph. She had been life, 
and he knew in his heart that his was the darkness. The 
desecration of her proud spirit and her mortal remains was more 
than he could bear. 

McBride looked up and saw one of the bullet-shattered 
trees. On its denuded branches perched a large black feathered 
form. The bird stared down at him, and McBride seemed to sense 
accusation in the obsidian eyes. He recalled from one of his 
maps that this stretch of hillside belonged to a property called 
Ravenhill Ranch, where no doubt some early settler had raised 
dairy or beef cattle. Somewhere he had read that ravens were 
long-lived birds. McBride irrelevantly wondered how old the bird 
was. what it had seen in its time. Be that as it may. he himself 
had seen and done enough. 

The Federals loaded up the bodies of their fallen enemies 
onto cargo helicopters that roared over the broken horizon on 
radioed command, then boarded the transport choppers. They 
were flown back to their temporary base camp in the empty town 
of Leland. By order of the United States Attorney General and 
the Secretary of Homeland Security, the town's several hundred 
residents had been deported to a relocation center in the Nevada 
desert several months before on suspicion of terrorist 
sympathies. That suspicion arose from the fact that no one in 
town seemed able or willing to inform the FATPO intelligence 
officers of the whereabouts of the same group of rebels they had 
just annihilated that morning. At midnight, while most of his 
fellow officers were getting uproariously drunk in the mess hall 
on kegs of beer and bottles of champagne flown in for the 
occasion, and while Major Coleman was performing an 
impromptu karaoke rap song about the morning's events. 
McBride slipped out of the camp. He was wearing civilian 
clothes, denim jeans, a plaid shirt and a windbreaker. He headed 
into the woods carrying his survival gear, his rifle, and as much 
ammunition as he had been able to hide away. About four 



The Hill of the Ravens 

hundred yards out he slid down an embankment and stealthily 
crossed a small stream under the starlight. It was a new moon, 
and the forest was cool and quiet. 

Just as he clambered up the opposite bank he heard to his 
left the sound of a round being jacked into the chamber of an M- 
16 and a quiet but deadly command. "Freeze! Right there!" A 
flashlight quickly flared from the two-man sentry post. Damn! 
thought McBride bitterly. J thought they were a click or two south. 
Well, it's what I get for teaching them to vary their position on watch. 
Trained them too damned well for my own good. I guess. 

"Schumacher? Petoskey? Is that you?" he demanded of the 
men in the darkness. 

"Hey, lieutenant!" said one of the sentries as they moved 
forward. "What are you doing out here? Checking up on us? 
Thought you'd be in there with the rest of 'em celebrating." 

"I don't feel very celebratory tonight." he replied. 
"Besides, in case you missed it, things didn't go all our way 
today. We lost eight guys ourselves. Besides that, Jerry Reb 
snuck into Port Orchard this morning while we were otherwise 
occupied and leveled the Kitsap County Special Criminal Court 
with a truck bomb. We didn't get 'em all. Not by a long sight. 
W 7 e ain't never gonna get 'em all." McBride knew these men and 
he was sure he could talk his way out of the situation, but all of a 
sudden he no longer wanted to. He had been living with lies too 
long. "I'm leaving." he told them bluntly. 

"Huh? Leaving for good? You mean you're going AWOL?" 
replied Petoskey in surprise. "Is this one of them informal 
resignations Homeland Security keeps sending us the nasty 
threatening memos about, sir?" chuckled Schumacher. 

"No." said McBride. "I'm not just cutting out like those 
other guys. I was going to resign, true, but that's not enough 
anymore. Not after this morning. I'm headed west into the 
Olympic. From the latest intel posts I think I have a good idea 
where I can find the man I want to meet. Corby Morgan. He'll be 
stepping up to fill the gap now we've taken out Murdock." There 



H. A. Covington 

was dead silence from the other two men for a long pause. "I've 
had enough, boys. I'm joining the rebels. Others have done it. If 
I can get close enough to talk to someone without getting my ass 
shot to hell, and if I can convince them I'm for real and I want to 
make it up to these people, to this new country they want to 
make, then I'm throwing in with the NVA." 

"Yeah? And if Jerry Reb thinks you're a spy he'll put a 
bullet in your head." Schumacher reminded him in a skeptical 
voice. 

"If that's the way it plays out. so be it. Can you honestly 
say I wouldn't deserve it? You know what we've been doing out 
here for the past year." said McBride bleakly. "You have eyes and 
ears. We're worse than they ever were. It's evil, what we're doing 
to these people. America has become an evil place. I'm not going 
to do evil anymore." There was a longer silence. "Well?" prodded 
McBride. "You guys want to play this by the book, now's the time 
to start shooting." His hands and arms tensed, ready to snap up 
the barrel of his rifle and fire. 

"I reckon we'll be coming with you." said Schumacher's 
voice in the dark forest. 



All You Northwest Volunteers 



Come All You Northwest Volunteers 

Come all you Northwest volunteers, our victory is sure! 

In battle or internment camp, our courage will endure! 

They will never take our dignity, although they give us hell. 

InZion's concentration camps, in each dark prison cell! 



The Hill of the Ravens 



II. 



Olympia in October mellows the soul with a subdued 
gaudiness. Usually the winter clouds have not yet set in. The 
pink and white cherry blossoms of spring are long gone, but 
orange and red and green spangle the oaks and the maple trees. 
The fallen leaves on the grass}' verges that line the residential 
streets and the malls paint the city's floor in bright color, and 
over all lies the crystalline light of the northern lands. The 
neatly trimmed parks and lawns of the Northwest American 
Republic's capital city become fragrant with the smell of late- 
blooming heather furze imported from Scotland. The air is clear 
without a single scent of pollution, and the streets hum softly 
from the electric engines of the city's trolleys and occasional 
ground cars. The branches of the native evergreens can be 
heard whispering in the wind. There is not an electricity or 
telephone pole in sight; in the Northwest, the last of those 
unsightly gibbets that once disfigured even' town in America for 
a century and a half are long gone. They were rendered obsolete 
by the broadcast rotational power grid that allows Northwesters 
to pluck their heat and light and sound out of the very air. 
There was no longer a live cable anywhere in the Republic, 
above ground or below it. Nor did the quiet whirr of electric 



H. A. Covington 

motors intrude into the landscape: it was almost like the 
summer buzzing of bees in the background. Visitors to Olympia 
always come away remembering how quiet everything is. 

At ten o'clock on an early October morning, somewhat 
more than forty years after the beginning of the Northwest War 
of Independence. Don Redmond of the Bureau of State Security 
took a call in his office. "Colonel Redmond?" said a brisk young 
male voice. 

"Last time I checked." said Don. "Unless the Americans 
have cloned me now, and I'm the clone." 

"Uh. I beg your... is this Colonel Redmond?" asked the 
voice, slightly flustered. 

"This is Don Redmond, Captain Barringer. What can I do 
you for?" 

"The State President would like to see you, sir. 
Immediately." 

"On my way." said Redmond. He put his pocket com 
away, but before he got up, Don rang his immediate superior. 
Major General Stephen Capshaw. and told him of the summons. 

"Yes. I know. His Excellency's office advised me already 
that they wanted a word with you." replied Capshaw in his crisp 
Oxonian tones. The correct form of address was actually "Mr. 
President," but like many veterans, Stephen Capshaw was still a 
part of the old world he grew up in as well as the new one his 
generation has created. The commanding officer of BOSS still 
affected the mannerisms of the old British upper class, all the 
way down to eschewing a uniform for rustic Lancashire tweeds 
and keeping a pipe rack of Dunhill briars in his office. It was 
not the first time that Don had carried out special 
troubleshooting assignments directly for President Morgan, 
which presented a break in the chain of command and a sticky 
problem in protocol, complicated by the fact that Redmond was 
also the State President's son in-law. It might have proven to be 
an uncomfortable work relationship; Redmond was the guy in 
the office who had married the boss's daughter. But his combat 
record with the SS during Operation Strikeout and his long 
history of skillful political police work let him stand on his own 



The Hill of the Ravens 

two feet. At Redmond's insistence, the State President and his 
aides were always scrupulous in observing the proper procedure 
and keeping his CO informed as to where he was and what he 
was doing, with a resulting absence of interdepartmental 
friction. Redmond walked down the corridor of the Bureau's 
offices in the Temple of Justice and stepped outside into the 
cool fall air. He did not have far to go. To his left rolled the 
wide green expanse of the Capital mall. The sward was dotted 
with statues of Adolf Hitler, George Lincoln Rockwell, Richard 
Butler and Bob Matthews, all of whom now shared the fate of 
countless past heroes and statesmen in becoming a perch and 
outhouse for flocks of pigeons. There was the War Circle 
ringing the Tivoli fountain, containing memorials like the 
gutted shell of a burned-out American tank from Operation 
Strikeout, the number plate from the fin of a North Korean- 
made missile, and a strange-looking art deco pillar made from 
captured American helmets. Looking to his right Don saw the 
State President's official residence sitting on a small hillock less 
than three hundred yards away. There was a sudden flare of 
light in the crisp blue sky. Redmond shaded his eyes and looked 
far to the south. There he saw the soaring match-like flame of a 
shuttle rocket taking off from the Centralia spaceport thirty 
miles away, outbound for one of the NAR's four space stations. 
Redmond silently breathed a prayer to the All-Father for the 
safe passage of the shuttle, for he knew that it carried badly 
needed supplies and equipment that would eventually reach his 
eldest son. who stood on the surface of another world 
inconceivably far away. Then he added a quick postscript to 
Yahweh as well. Redmond was a National Socialist, but he felt it 
never hurt to cover all the bases. 

Don Redmond was a medium-sized man of middle age. 
smooth-shaven with dark brown hair that was going lightly salt- 
and-pepper. He wore a nondescript, dark pin-striped suit with 
cuffed trousers, wide lapels and a broad tie and overcoat in the 
current favored quasi-i930s cut. A broad fedora hat sat on his 
head at a rakish angle. Fashion in the Northwest Republic was 
odd. In some respects it was a matter of government policy, 



H. A. Covington 

which demanded as total a differentiation as could be achieved 
between Northwesterners and the crawling chaos of the United 
States. There were strong historical and psychological reasons 
to believe that clothes did indeed make the man and the 
woman, and that popular dress carried a significant role in 
shaping and channeling thought processes. The Ministry of 
Culture accordingly took a strong interest in sartorial affairs. 
Having succeeded in turning the clock back to the 1930s, the 
chic designers of Seattle were now trying for the I 890s. They 
were reintroducing leg of-mutton sleeves and long lace-up 
boots for women as well as bowler hats, sweeping moustaches, 
sideburns and high winged collars with cravats instead of ties 
for men. This might seem an incongruous national dress for the 
only country on earth with effective interplanetary travel, but 
there it was. The current rage for moustache and Picadilly 
weepers were a little much for Redmond, who had been clean- 
shaven all his life, so he stuck with his zoot suit and managed to 
do so without looking like a cop. He walked across the lawn and 
stopped outside, mingling with a small group of European 
tourists to watch the changing of the guard ceremony in front of 
the House of Parliament. Today it was the Special Service Scots 
Guards Regiment. Bagpipes wailing, the SS troops were 
resplendent in their black dress jackets with silver piping and 
crimson swastika armbands, a spectacle of swirling kilts in the 
Royal Stuart tartan and feathered blue Glengarry bonnets, 
Cairngorm brooches pinning their shoulder plaids. 

The single Special Service guard in dress black at the 
gate house had a com on, and the news reader was talking about 
a school of dolphins that had been seen jumping in the south 
end of the Puget Sound. It appeared as if the Northwest Defense 
Force's naval and air patrols had succeeded in putting a stop to 
Korean and Japanese poaching in the north Pacific, and the 
friendly sea creatures seemed definitely to be on the way back 
from threatened extinction. "Morning, Colonel," said the 
officer. A large Doberman pinscher dog sat his haunches 
outside the guardhouse, panting and staring at Redmond. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Good morning. Hank," said Don. "You or the box?" "The 
box, sir." said the soldier. "You might fool me. The box you 
can't." 

"I don't think I could fool you. Hank," chuckled 
Redmond. 

"Sir, since you're in BOSS you know about the surgically 
altered double for Big Bill Vitale that the ONR tried to slip into 
the Republic two months ago," said the guard. 

"Actually, I was the one who caught him." replied 
Redmond reminiscently. 

"Yes, sir. The box, please." 

"You got it." said Redmond. He put his left thumb onto 
the security disk. There was a faint tickle as the subatomic light 
beams analyzed his DNA and matched it with the security 
clearance database. The little light on the box blinked green. 
"Authenticate," ordered a firm and authoritative male 
mechanical voice. 

"Redmond. Donald. 726878. BOSS." said Redmond. 

"Good morning. Colonel." returned the robot politely. 
"Catch an}' bad guys lately?" 

"A few." replied Redmond. "We don't have many bad 
guys in the Republic nowadays. We like it that way." 

"We don't have many bad guys because of gentlemen like 
yourself. Colonel." replied the machine. "Authenticated. Have a 
good day. sir." 

"You too. box." replied Redmond. Like so many citizens 
of the Republic he had found himself falling into the habit of 
talking to robots, even though he knew they were not actually 
intelligent and had been programmed with random 
conversational responses based on the identity and voice- 
inflected mood of the person they interacted with. "Guess you 
won't have to unleash Rover." chuckled Redmond. 

"It would be embarrassing if he were to tear the arm off 
Miss Sarah's main man." agreed the SS guard with a smile. The 
Doberman was a GELF. a genetically engineered attack dog. 
controlled by a microchip inserted beneath his fur at the base of 
his neck that tapped into the animal's spinal column and 



H. A. Covington 

communicated directly with his brain. The microchip had been 
programmed so that the dog would react in a given way to any 
one of eighty-four external situations, anything from Don 
pulling a gun on the guard, to someone trying to scale the fence, 
to an unauthorized person attempting to feed him. The correct 
commands from a handler with an authorized voice pattern 
could also transmit the necessary neural signals as commands 
that went right to Rover's brain cortex, such as "kill!" The dog's 
steroid-enhanced muscles were strong enough to smash 
through a locked door. He could survive for many minutes with 
a bullet in his heart or his brain, and his surgically implanted 
polymer teeth were capable of ripping a man in body armor into 
several pieces. Rover could also sniff out any known explosive 
compound at a distance of three hundred yards. A handful of 
these animals were a far more effective and deterrent 
protection against an assassination attempt against the 
Republic's leader than any number of armed guards or 
electronic devices that might be susceptible to interdiction or 
sabotage. The mechanical arm blocking the walkway lifted and 
Redmond entered the grounds. Two gray squirrels were chasing 
one another on the trim green lawn beneath the towering 
Douglas firs, wrestling over an acorn. The dog ignored them. 

The State President's official residence, formally known 
as Longview House after the treaty that had brought the 
Republic into being, was actually the former Washington state 
governor's mansion. The house stood in the shadow of the old 
domed state capitol building that now housed the Republic's 
Parliament. Longview House was the oldest structure still 
standing on the Capital mall. Originally built in 1908. the two- 
story Georgian Revival mansion of mellow red brick was erected 
in a hurry and never intended to last, but it was now over a 
century and a half old. After the signing of the Longview 
Accords the retreating Federals had attempted to burn the 
building, but had been prevented from doing so and the fire 
doused by one of the janitors while the janitor's fourteen year- 
old grandson had held half a dozen FBI agents and U. S. 
Marshals at bay at gunpoint. A small but graceful marble 



The Hill of the Ravens 

monument topped by statues of both grandfather and grandson 
now graced the high ceilinged vestibule. At the present the 
presidential home was furnished with many of the fine 
collection of American, British and French antiques from the 
late 18th and early 19th centuries which had graced the dining 
rooms, offices, and bedrooms of successive Washington chief 
executives since 1909 when the first governor moved in. The 
NDF had found these items hidden in a warehouse charged with 
explosives, wired and ready to blow. A young Volunteer had 
earned himself an Iron Cross by disarming them. The Volunteer 
was now in his late fifties. He had no statue, but he did have a 
bar in Post Falls. Idaho where his framed Iron Cross hung on 
the wall and anyone who wore the War of Independence ribbon 
was assured of a free drink and a meal. 

Don stepped into the warm carpeted vestibule. The SS 
guards in full dress black uniform who stood on either side of 
the hallway with slung Schmeisser Mark X11 submachine guns 
eyed him but said nothing. Another GELF dog lay on the carpet, 
a German shepherd who regarded Redmond with a lazy eye as 
possibly lunch, possibly not. The sergeant at the reception desk 
was a new man he had never seen before. He checked 
Redmond's ID and thumbprint again, and told him. "The State 
President is waiting for you in the library, sir. For the record, 
may I examine your sidearm, please?" Redmond handed over 
his automatic pistol, a charged energy clip and an extra 
magazine of slender, deadly copper-jacketed bullets without 
cartridges. The man punched the serial number into his desktop 
computer and ran it. "Yep, that's you." 

"New security procedure?" asked Redmond. 

"The ONR might duplicate your features. Colonel," 
replied the SS sergeant with a smile. 'They might even arm their 
assassin with one of these new Gary Wilkerson Mark IV kine 
handguns. But they might forget to duplicate the serial number. 
A little extra random check General Hammond thought up.** 

"Good for him." said Redmond approvingly. 

"These GWs as good a piece as they say?" asked the 
sergeant curiously as he handed the pistol back. 



H. A. Covington 

"Yup, I flip up the holographic sight on this infant, I can 
drive a nail at four hundred yards. BOSS likes to stay ahead of 
the curve, but I thought you guys in the Special Service 
Protective Branch would have been issued with GWs by now?" 
queried Redmond. 

"We got a familiarization day on the range with the GW 
Mark ill, but General Hammond, he's a real traditionalist. Still 
loves that smell of cordite." 

"Hey, sarge, don't knock it. Villainous saltpetre won this 
country for us twice, once against the Indians and once against 
ZOG." 

"Bet you could have used a few of these Wilkersons back 
in the old days, eh. Colonel?" asked the SS man. The sergeant 
had spotted the green, white and blue War of Independence 
ribbon on Redmond's wide pinstriped lapel. 

"Wouldn't know, sarge. They never actually let me go 
strapped, which was a valid precaution. I probably would have 
shot myself playing with a piece. I was just a gopher, really. 
Never fired a shot in anger, so to speak, until the Missoula 
incursion. I was a senior in Sandpoint and not commissioned 
yet when Clinton ill decided she wanted to play grab-ass with 
the Northmen. They threw us cadets and everybody else into 
the salient. All they could give us were some Valmet AK knock- 
offs we'd smuggled in from Finland, and three loaded 
magazines apiece. That and one of Doctor Cord's first plasma 
projectors mounted on the back of an old Toyota pickup truck, 
but it was enough to bring down four of the American bombers 
and a couple of Cruise missiles. Without their air cover, the 
Americans never could fight their way out of a wet paper bag. 
We threw the bastards all the way back to Minnesota." 

"Er, sir, if you don't mind my saying so, you look a bit 
young... " 

Redmond laughed good-naturedly. "I was young. You're 
new on this detail, so you haven't seen me around, but you'll get 
used to me going in and out. Sometimes business, sometimes 
family. I married the boss's daughter. I usually get a steak and a 
few beers for this story, you know. I was twelve years old and I 



The Hill of the Ravens 

had a route as a paperboy in Bellevue. I didn't know it. but one 
of the homes where I delivered the Seattle Times on my bike was 
a safe house used by the NVA and senior members of the Party 
who were on the run. I started carrying messages and doing 
errands for the people there. Hell. I couldn't even tell you when 
I figured out who they were and what was going on, but I never 
let on. Then one day I was in the house and there was a new 
visitor. I recognized this big hillbilly-talking fellow with a beard 
from the television news. I walked up to him and I said 'I know 
who you are. You're Corby Morgan." I looked at the rest of the 
grownups and said, 'I may be just a kid but I'm as white as you 
are. I want to be a Jerry Reb too! Now you've either got to kill 
me or swear me in.' They swore me in. I became the second 
youngest member in the history of the Northwest Volunteer 
Army, the youngest being Commandant Morgan's daughter 
Sarah, aged eleven. To tell you the truth, she was what 
interested me most about that house." 

"You were with Corby Morgan back in the old days?" 
exclaimed the SS man. highly impressed. "Port Townsend 
Flying Column?" 

"No. not the Flying Columns. They were for the hard 
men, which I wasn't. I was mostly just an errand boy for 
Number Two Seattle Brigade under Jock Graham. Even that was 
only for about the last year or so of the war. After I joined I 
learned that my uncle and his wife were Jerry Rebs as well. 
They found out what I was doing, and they hit the roof. Matt 
and Heather brought me Home as a child after my parents were 
murdered by Mexicans in North Carolina. I was six years old 
then. Turned out they were Party people from way before 
10/22, but for me to be involved, hey, that was something 
different! Uncle Matt and John Corbett damned near got into it 
up close and personal when Matt found out he'd sworn me in. 
They'd always bent over backwards for us kids not to be 
involved." 

"Holy shit!" gasped the SS man. "I mean sorry, sir. I 
apologize for my language, but the name just hit me. Your uncle 
was Matt Redmond?" 



H. A. Covington 

"Yeah. My father was Steve Redmond, his younger 
brother. And before you ask, he was lawyer, I'm sorry to say. 
Our family skeleton." 

The sergeant turned white. "Oh, Jesus, sir. I didn't mean 
no... " 

"I can hardly take offense, sarge, since I volunteered the 
information. I've learned down through the years that's the best 
way to deal with it. No need for whispers, just get it out in the 
open. I've come to accept it. In the old days there were 
hundreds of thousands of lawyers, and all those swine had to be 
related to somebody. The truth cannot offend, it simply is." 

"Hey. Colonel, thanks for the story. I guess I owe you a 
steak and a beer or two." said the sergeant with relief. 

"Maybe I'll take you up on it someday." said Redmond 
with a chuckle. "Anyway, mustn't keep the main man what 
counts waiting." 

"No. sir. by no means. Go right in. The President is 
waiting for you in the library." 

Don knew the mansion well since he and his family spent 
their holidays there, but the library was always Don Redmond's 
favorite room in the entire house. Any library was, for that 
matter. One of the things that made Don such a good 
investigator was a naturally inherited, insatiable curiosity and 
desire to gain knowledge, especially knowledge of the frailty 
and wickedness of human nature. The books on the mahogany 
shelves were assembled from private collections around the 
world; the works of Houston Stewart Chamberlain, Count 
Gobineau, Dietrich Eckart, Alfred Rosenberg, Savitri Devi, 
Francis Parker Yockey, Nesta Webster, William Gayley 
Simpson, and George Lincoln Rockwell. Centuries of 
accumulated racial wisdom seemed to pervade the room. Many 
of these books had spent long years in secret hiding places to 
preserve them from confiscation and destruction by the Zionist 
authorities in a dozen countries. More than one NVA Volunteer 
had gotten their revolutionary start with the simple but 
dangerous assignment of concealing and transporting forbidden 
books and literature, one step ahead of teams of U. S. Marshalls 



The Hill of the Ravens 

who had hunted them with Federal court orders for the books' 
destruction in the hungry incinerators of ZOG. The pictures on 
the walls were watercolors and engravings of Palouse Falls and 
the Dalles area of the Columbia River gorge, part of the original 
furnishings of the large and high-ceilinged room. They as well 
had been preserved from the Federal flames by the valiant 
janitor and his boy. 

Yet there was one more sentinel Don had to pass before 
he reached his destination. As he opened the door to the 
library, Don was confronted by a small, spry little man with a 
grizzled rat's-whisker moustache, gray in every sense of the 
word, gnarled and grim and glaring at him. The old man's hand 
was on the pistol at his hip. "Good morning, starshine! The 
earth says hello!" Redmond greeted him cheerfully. Corey Nash 
grunted at him, looked him up and down, and then grudgingly 
stood aside to let Redmond in with a jerk of his head. The 
President's long-time sidekick was an even more reliable 
security feature than the dogs. So far as Don could recollect, not 
only had not a single living person ever seen the old man smile, 
but nor had anyone had ever seen him asleep any time in the 
past four decades. "You still owe me twenty-two dollars and 
fifty cents for a month's paper delivery." said Don. 

"It was only eighteen dollars and you know? it! Why do 
you keep bringing that crap up? You still trying to cheat the 
man out of four dollars and fifty cents after all this time? Don't 
you think that's pretty low?" hissed the old man. 

"It is my life's ambition. I dream at night about how I 
will someday get that money from our illustrious head of state, 
even though nobody takes American dollars here anymore. 
Aside from that, how are you today, Mr. Nash? As always, wee 
cherub, you are an ebullient breath of good cheer on this fine 
autumn morning." 

"Don't be a cheeky bugger, you young lout!" growled the 
codger. Don was well within shouting distance of fifty and his 
head had hairs as gray as those on the mottled skull of Corey 
Nash, whom he had known since he was twelve. Nash had not 
approved of Sarah's boyfriend then and did not approve of Don 



H. A. Covington 

now. but that was not unusual. Corey Nash was a total 
misanthrope who approved of no one, including the members of 
the Morgan family whom he had served with every fiber of his 
being for decades. Nor did Don hold it against him. Nash had 
been born in Rhodesia, and his parents had been stupid enough 
to stay after it became Zimbabwe. One day young Nash had 
come in from the tobacco fields outside Gwelo and found his 
entire family murdered and partially eaten by the cannibal 
Leopard Men, as well as a number of their body parts removed 
to make muti. Bantu magic. This had understandably skewed 
Mr. Nash's view of the human condition. 

"Me? Whose cheeks do I supposedly bugger?" asked Don. 

"He told the United Nations Commissioner for Human 
Rights the same thing the other day." called a deep voice from 
within the room. "I'm scairt he's going to kill that GELF dog out 
in the vestibule and make a winter hat out of him. Dammit. 
Corey, get your senile ass out of the door and let Don in! I know 
you've never forgiven him for dragging Miss Sarah over the 
threshold into unholy wedlock, but I need to talk to him." 

"Senile my dangling Rhodesian chilogo! You're older that 
I am! Damned peckerwood fool!" back-snapped Nash. The coot 
shuffled out of the way with a snarl in his body, admitting Don 
with obvious reluctance, and slammed the door after him. 

"Just out of curiosity, when was the last time Corey 
uttered a civil word to anybody except Sarah and my kids?" 
asked Redmond. 

"Well, to be fair to the man, he did apologize to Hillary 
Clinton for making such a mess of her dress when he cut off her 
other ear." replied the man in the library. "How many years ago 
was that? Never mind." John Corbett Morgan. State President 
of the Northwest American Republic, rose from behind his desk 
and shook hands warmly with his son-in-law. He was a tall and 
heavy man in his early seventies, attired in a dark suit of Italian 
cut that seemed to hang on his still powerful body like armor. It 
was incongruous. Anything Morgan wore somehow? seemed to 
look like denim working clothes. His face was seamed and 
scarred above a patriarchal white beard, and a white mane done 



The Hill of the Ravens 

up in a single ponytail hung down his back. His grip was strong, 
and his blue eyes were cold and clear and sharp as steel. 

"Morning. Don!" he boomed. "How's Sarah and all them 
young 'uns of ours?" Corby Morgan was an early settler who had 
made the Northwest migration when he was nineteen, during 
the Butler era. Yet even after more than half a century, his voice 
and his diction still retained the accent of his native Kentucky 
mountains, where his family had mined coal and made 
moonshine for generations. He had been a hard kid growing up 
in the bleak coal country, a hard man in his youth, a hard man 
in his middle age, and he had aged hard like an ancient oak. It 
was almost as if Morgan was defying history itself by continuing 
to speak with the voice of his ancestors who had gotten their 
English from the time of Shakespeare, via Jamestown. In his 
words one heard the voice of a people now extinct. Several 
years before the official language of the court system in Harlan 
County. Kentucky, always the last holdout in the United States 
on just about everything, had finally been changed to Spanglish, 
along with the termination of the last English language 
instruction in what passed for the public schools. In Morgan, 
the real Harlan County lived on. 

"They're all fine, sir." Redmond assured him. In official 
business settings Redmond always addressed his father-in-law 
with formal correctness. "The family got a long com last night 
from Allan at Landfall Station, although twelve minute time lag 
made conversation a bit stilted. Fortunately the Mars orbit is 
really close to Earth right now. He's looking great. He says that 
Martian gravity feels fantastic when he's working or resting 
inside the station. He can take off all his gear and his pressure 
suit and he only weighs about fifty pounds, but he misses seeing 
trees everywhere, and he's looking forward to coming home 
next year. He took a comcam with him while he went outside 
the dome and diddled with some electronic gear he had to 
adjust, so we got to see some of the Martian landscape, such as 
it is. It's kind of like Wyoming." 

"Now you know I don't like Wyoming jokes." chuckled 
Morgan. 



H. A. Covington 

"Then why are you laughing? No. it really does look like 
Wyoming. All empty and red, with a blue sky above, just asking 
for us to come along and make it livable." 

"We'll make Mars green with our own Douglas firs one 
day. Don. The science boys tell me it can be done, once we get 
an oxygen atmosphere and maybe diddle with the trees" 
genetics a bit. The Martian rock can be powdered into soil and 
enough water and oxygen can be extracted to give the planet a 
breathable atmosphere. We can even manufacture water and 
carbon dioxide through the new cold fusion process. It will be 
cold as hell at first, until we can warm it up with superheated 
air from a nuclear reactor and thicken it enough to create an 
atmospheric heat trap, but we can live there, like we live in 
Alaska in the winter. Sheol, man, we're a cold weather race, 
remember? Ice Man Heritage and all that lefty-liberal crap?" 

"There's actually a good deal of truth in that, you know," 
commented Redmond. "Having to survive through the long 
winters of the northern lands, and the natural selection that 
resulted, was what initially gave us our genetic edge over the 
other species of humanity." 

"An edge we intend to keep," said Morgan. "Mars is 
where we will finally show history just what white people can 
do on our own. We will give that dead world life, plants and 
animals from this one. We will breed our people up bigger and 
better and stronger than ever we were here, because we're 
starting fresh. Nobody on our back, riding free and leeching off 
us. No blacks, no Jews, no mud people. And by the Eternal, not 
one of them will ever set foot on Mars! The stars are ours. Don. 
and they will remain ours forever!" 

"And if the Ministry of Culture have their way, one day 
we'll be walking over Mars in tricorne hats, periwigs, and shoes 
with silver buckles!" jibed Redmond. "And lace handkerchiefs 
and slim little canes with silver heads, and perhaps small and 
exquisitely wrought snuffboxes. Not to mention the elderly folk 
with their big moustaches and top hats. And the cravats." 

"Why the hell not?" chuckled the president. "The Lord 
commanded His people to go forth and multiply. He said 



The Hill of the Ravens 

nothing about how we were supposed to dress. I'm proud as hell 
of that astronaut grandson of mine, and I know you are too. 
Keep this confidential, but he'll have some company up there 
soon. We're sending out two hundred more personnel to 
Landfall, both scientific and military. They left Orbital Station 
Three on the Andromeda almost two months ago. and they're on 
course. They'll reach Deimos in three more months, transfer 
themselves and their cargo to the landing craft, and once 
they're down they'll settle in for a long stay on the surface. 
Their mission is to begin the terra-forming of the planet, to 
build the atomic smelting plants that will break down the 
ferrous oxide and the underground ice and start building up an 
atmosphere. We're shooting for breathable air on Mars within 
ten years, and the beginning of serious colonization in twenty. 
If we can hold the bastards off down here for another 
generation, then the survival of our race will be assured, 
because we will exist on two worlds and not just this one. The 
goddamned kikes will never be able to kill us all off! Best thing 
is. Allan will be able to catch one of those landing craft back to 
Deimos and from there to Earth. He'll be home in time for 
Christmas after next. Let's you and me make a date to go up to 
the mountains with a couple of shotguns about December 22 nd 
next year and bag him a wild turkey for Christmas dinner." 

"We can do that now that Game and Wildlife has stocked 
them throughout the Republic." agreed Don. "Along with the 
wild boar, the eagles and condors, and the genetically recovered 
passenger pigeons and Tasmanian thylacines. Look, John 
Corbett. I know it's a classified matter having nothing to do 
with the Bureau of State Security, but what's all this scuttlebutt 
I keep hearing about mammoths? " 

"In about five or six years, yup." answered Morgan with 
pride. "Gotta have something for our growing wolf and 
mountain lion population to eat." 

"Not to mention our new population of Siberian tigers. 
Isn't it odd that ZOG accuses us of extermination?" said 
Redmond with a wry smile. "We've brought how many species 
back from the brink of extinction, now? In some cases like the 



H. A. Covington 

thylacine, quite literally back from the grave, cloning their 
DNA?" 

"Yeah, well, I just wish we'd had some of them turkeys 
up in the Olympic mountains back in the old days of the Port 
Townsend Column. In them days half the rabbits and squirrels 
and deer we shot weren't fit to eat because of all the toxic waste 
that ZOG dumped into the air and the water." 

"That's great news about the expanding Mars colony, sir. 
although hell's bells, we still haven't settled our own Homeland 
fully yet! I still find it hard to believe that a small and relatively 
poor country of forty million people like us can afford a space 
program." 

"When those forty million are all productive, creative, 
and hard working people who each and every one contributes 
something to society rather than leeches off the state or lives off 
usury, then it's amazing what a country can afford." said 
Morgan. "When that country doesn't have to pay for massive 
drug addiction, Third World diseases, rampant crime, billions 
in foreign aid to puppet governments around the world, and 
maintaining armies of occupation over sullen Third World 
conquered nations, then there's money for little extras like a 
space program. When that country doesn't have gargantuan 
multi-national corporations gorging themselves on the national 
treasury, then it's astounding what a chunk of change becomes 
available for other things. Forty million people all working in 
synch in a land of peace and freedom from materialism can 
perform miracles they never dreamed of in the last century 
when big business ruled, son. When you don't have to maintain 
millions of people in prisons and forced labor camps, when you 
have stability and unity in a racially homogenous society, when 
you've got real free enterprise as opposed to monopoly finance 
capitalism, when the government is only as big as it needs to be 
to maintain the state, and above all when you have no 
goddamned lawyers to suck everything dry. you'd be damned 
amazed what a small country like ours can accomplish. You 
want to know the greatest testament to the success of the 
revolution? 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Let me ask you something. How many BOSS agents are 
there all told, and where are they?" 

"Mmm, about a hundred, I think," said Redmond. "All of 
them are based across the street there, except when they're out 
on assignment." 

"Exactly!" crowed Morgan. "That's what, one single 
government agency and one political policeman for every four 
hundred thousand people in the Republic? Counting all their 
various agencies. FBI and ONR and Department of Homeland 
Security, Internal CIA, and the state and local security organs, 
the ratio of political police to population in the United States is 
one in 217, working out of over three thousand heavily fortified 
facilities, offices, prisons and bases. The BOSS allocation is 
.0012 percent of our national budget. The Civil Guard is two 
percent of the budget for normal criminal policing, and we have 
no prisons beyond county jails and holding facilities at Guard 
and military barracks. No slave labor camps here like in the 
States. Someone shows his butt in the Republic, we either kill 
'em, flog 'em, erase 'em, or fine 'em, and then we turn 'em 
loose. The total budget for all police and prison agencies in the 
United States is 18% of their gross national product. What does 
that tell you about how our way works versus theirs? Oh. before 
I forget, on completely different topic, I got something for you. 
The Irish ambassador smuggled them in by diplomatic pouch." 

Morgan pulled out a wooden box and flipped it open, and 
there, by heaven, they lay! 

"Hot damn, rolled Havanas!" gasped Don. 

"Now, far be it from me to bad-mouth our own 
hydroponic tobacco industry, especially in view of all that lovely 
excise tax money it earns for the Republic. Saves us from 
needing an income tax. But the fact is that rank does have its 
occasional privileges. Take a handful before you go." Both men 
lit cigars and sat down on the sofa. The door opened and Corey 
Nash shuffled in bearing a tray with a large metal percolator 
pot of hot coffee and two large mugs. "Now, Corey, did I ask for 
coffee?" asked Morgan. 

"No, but you got it anyway." the old man snarled. 



H. A. Covington 

"Real coffee, Mr. Nash?" asked Don with a smile. 

"Acorn and chicory was good enough for everybody in 
this country for twenty years, and it's bloody good enough for 
you now!" snapped Nash. He set the tray down on the table in 
front of the sofa and shambled out. muttering to himself. Don 
poured them both a cup of the traditional Northwest hot tipple, 
black and foul-smelling and the very nectar of the gods to those 
who had lived through the swingeing economic sanctions of the 
early days. Acorn coffee had become a proud national symbol 
for the Northwesters, and to this day it still outsold the real 
bean in the private shops and state co-op stores. 

"You wanted to see me about something, sir?" he finally 
got around to asking. 

"Yes. I've got a hot one for you, Don," said President 
Morgan. "A hot one and a weird one. Something's come up, 
something really odd. A blast from the past, you might say. But 
before we get into that I'd like to hear anything you can add 
about that Andrews case you just wrapped up. That worries me. 
Don. I've read the official reports, of course, and I understand 
that the affair is sub judice now, but you were the lead 
investigator and you can fill in some gaps for me. Were these 
fruitcakes really planning on assassinating a leading Christian 
Identity Member of Parliament, or was it all just beer talk?" 

"It had reached the serious planning stage, all right," 
said Redmond. "I think they would have tried it. Maybe 
succeeded, and then there'd be holy hell to pay, if you'll pardon 
the expression. We were tipped off when a girl from the Labor 
Service who was waitressing at the restaurant in the OBA club 
in Seattle overheard some things she didn't like and she 
contacted BOSS. Significantly, our witness is a Wiccan 
practitioner herself, but she has sense enough to know that 
murdering Bible boys is a non-starter in a country where eighty 
percent of the population are Christians of one sort or another. 
Not all Old Believers are as wigged out as the suspects in this 
case are." 

"You must have been elsewhere when we signed the 
Republic's concordat with the Vatican." said Morgan sourly. I 



The Hill of the Ravens 

had 'em dancing around Parliament in their bear skins and 
horned helmets waving their damned hammers like loons. 
Them and the Paisley Presbyterians screaming about the Whore 
of Babylon. Along with the shoutin' Baptists, the Pentecostals. 
and those nuts who think the Pope is a space alien from Alpha 
Centauri." 

Redmond shook his head in bemusement. "We slapped 
full electronic surveillance on their dumb asses and we have 
video and audio from their meetings in Andrews' garage, on the 
monorail and in the beach house up in Anacortes. It will 
convince a jury of twelve male citizens upright and true that 
they were serious about killing Pastor Briggs. Plus female 
citizens as well, if Mrs. Parker demands women on her jury, 
which of course she has the legal right to do. Andrews and the 
three other men will most likely be flogged and have their 
citizenship suspended for a number of years, which may sound 
rough for nothing but talk, but you know how vital it is that we 
keep a tight grip on the religious situation in this country. I 
believe the events can be presented in such a way that the 
Parkers will be shown as the instigators, and that their case 
needs to be referred to a security court. Since Briggs 
wasn'tactually killed they'll escape the gallows, in which case I 
hope the judge will order them both to be erased." 

"How compromised is the Old Believers" Association?" 
asked Morgan keenly. 

"The OBA is fine. They have repudiated the conspirators, 
loud and clear and unambiguously. This wasn't an OBA thing. It 
was just these six people who went batty." Redmond assured 
him. "Todd Andrews and the other three, and the married 
couple, the Parkers. I have some questions in my mind about 
the true nature of the Parkers" involvement." 

"ONR agent provocateurs?" asked Morgan. 

"There is no concrete evidence that the U. S. Office of 
Northwest Recovery was involved, but we know it's one of their 
long term strategic goals to set off a full scale religious war in 
the Republic. Hell, they have enough help from the idiots on 
both sides here who for no reason related to sanity seem to 



H. A. Covington 

want the same thing. The ONR also has a habit of inserting 
male-female teams, married or otherwise, since that maintains 
long-term loyalty by reducing the natural urge of both sexes to 
go looking for nookie elsewhere and maybe getting personally 
invoked with the enemy. Our War Prevention Department does 
the same thing with the agents we sent into the States and 
Aztlan. BOSS confiscated the Parkers' homecoms and 
portacoms and the technical analysts in our lab found several 
traces of what appear to be encrypted elements of computer 
code, which the Parkers deleted before they were arrested." 

"From outside the Republic?" asked the president 
keenly. 

"Can't tell. Whatever these fragments were, they were 
top of the line encrypted and we haven't been able to decode 
them yet. We're working on it. As to the Parkers themselves, 
they're completely clean as far as we can determine. We hacked 
a number of databases both in Aztlan and the United States, 
and what we came up with appeared to match their stated 
backgrounds as far as birth dates, social security numbers, 
employment, etc. If they were set up with false identities then it 
was done by pros, but I've always admitted the ONR does good 
work. The Parkers took the gap six years ago. the usual 
dramatic running of the border, so forth and so on. Perhaps a 
bit too dramatic." 

"Did they enter from the U. S. or Aztlan?" 

"Aztlan." replied Redmond. "They said on their 
Homecoming applications that they were from Santa Clara, 
California." 

"If they were coming from California, why didn't they use 
the open border crossing at Mountain Gate?" asked Morgan. 

"Parker claimed that because of his technical skills he 
would not have been able to get an exit visa, which for all I 
know may be the truth. Despite all the Umpezia de sangre crap, 
the Mexican government is realistic enough to know they need 
skilled white labor to keep even the semblance of society 
functioning down there. The Parkers also had about forty 
thousand dollars in savings they wanted to bring with them 



The Hill of the Ravens 

which the Mexicans would never have allowed them to take out 
of Nuevo Mondo Hispanica. Plus the fact that even so much as 
asking to enter the Republic for a visit can bring heavy 
retaliation down there, as you know. It all looked straight up 
and credible. We get thousands of cases like that every year, as 
the last white people in the Southwest and Texas try to make a 
break for it. Glenn Parker was employed as an electronics 
circuit mapper in one of the space communication facilities. 
Parker is a class B-2 citizen due to his technical qualifications. 
The wife was a C-cat. No kids, which kind of adds to my 
suspicion a bit. A man with a B job and a wife with a Charlie 
homemaker's check that would have gotten significantly better 
with each child? No financial reason for them to have no family. 
If they couldn't have children for medical reasons, why didn't 
they adopt? The Lebensborn Heritage Recovery teams are 
snatching hundreds of white babies every year now from the 
States and Canada, running them across the border like the old 
rumrunners and drug cartels used to smuggle in hooch and 
dope. The creches are full, and our own people are so into 
having kids that Lebensborn actually has trouble finding 
adoptive parents now. Not like it was sixty years ago under the 
American regime, when a healthy white infant could fetch a 
hundred grand on the adoption market and the government was 
in the business of kidnapping Aryan children for sale to PC 
yuppies and faggots. We have an embarrassment of riches, you 
might say." 

"Yeah, I know." agreed Morgan. "That's why Parliament 
passed the law granting a one-grade citizenship bump and 
increasing the homemaker's benefits for anyone adopting a 
Lebensborn kid now. By the way.. .?" 

"Sarah and I are already A-Is. so we don't need a 
promotion, but we've already applied." Redmond told him. "We 
should have some more little feet pattering around in a couple 
of months. Sarah's incredible! Five of our own, two of them not 
yet grown, and already she's ready for the second wave. Says 
she can't wait around for grandchildren. Eva's so crazy to have 
some babies to play with she's actually set aside some time from 



H. A. Covington 

her acting lessons for child-rearing classes at the high-school, 
and John is making a crib out in our garage with my tools." 

"And speaking of grandchildren, what's the story on 
Cindy El?" asked Morgan. 

"The Mark Conway situation is looking good for when he 
gets out of the army," replied Don. I think we'll get a formal 
proposal soon. When Allan gets home Sarah and I are going to 
propose for Sinead O'Neill, General Michael O'Neill's oldest 
daughter. At Allan's request, of course. I don't believe in 
marriage-shopping my kids off without consulting them first. 
Allan and Sinead met when she was in junior high school and 
he got roped in to do some lectures on astronaut training. He's 
twelve years older than she is. which our social engineering 
people tell us is about the right compatibility range, and that 
strikes me as about right as well. I know, there's only a year 
between Sarah and me. but those were different times. They've 
already worked it out between them. Sinead is waiting for him. 
General O'Neill knows and he has given us to understand he 
won't entertain any other proposals, presuming Allan gets home 
within a reasonable time. The girl should be in the first year 
toward her biochemistry degree and on her way to B-l 
citizenship by then, and she has already applied for Party 
membership. Between the two of them, given Allan's Class A 
citizenship and her education, they will both be eligible for 
early Life Grants, so that's their house taken care of." 

"I've met Sinead at some military dos. when she was 
there with her Dad. I was impressed. I heard she and Allan were 
courting and I'm glad it worked out. Right, as much as I hate to 
do so, back to the Andrews case," said Morgan with a sigh. 

"To all outward appearances the Parkers are just a couple 
of kooky pagans with a bug up their ass about Christianity, all 
the usual blather about Jesus being a dead Jew on a stick, and 
they seem to have an ability to talk weaker-minded people into 
doing things they shouldn't." 

"Agent provocs usually have that ability." remarked 
Morgan dryly. "God knows we learned that the hard way about a 
thousand times back in the old days. Any chance at all any 



The Hill of the Ravens 

space programs might have been compromised by Glenn 
Parker? I've got a grandboy sitting up there on that red hunk of 
rock we call Mars, and I will be exceedingly wroth if this 
bastard has done anything that might keep him from coming 
home." 

"You and me both, sir. Believe me. I looked into that 
possibility, very closely. I don't think so. Parker's security 
clearance wasn't that high, and the technology he worked with 
is nothing new to the Americans or the Chinese. We're looking 
into that as well, of course. Even though we don't have any 
actual proof of espionage, sabotage, or unlawful contact with 
the common enemy. I've already put in my recommendation for 
a security court, at least for the Parkers. No publicity, jury 
drawn from Alpha citizens only." 

"Mmmm, afraid I have to overrule you there, Don." said 
Morgan with a frown. "Sorry. I wish there didn't have to be a 
trial. We sure as hell could do without this kind of public 
washing of the Republic's dirty laundry. But this is one we have 
to bring out in the open. It's not just because secret tribunals 
are a ZOG thing. We use them too. because sometimes we have 
to. We're still at war. despite over a generation of trying to 
reach some kind of permanent agreement with these people. 
But if the Christians think we're covering something like this up 
they'll nail my hide to a barn door next election. Nor can we 
exclude Bravos and Charlies from the jury, as would be the case 
with a security court. Most Christian Identity citizens are of 
those degrees and it ain't politically expedient to keep it to 
Alphas only. Alphas are mostly National Socialists and thus 
considered to be pagans by Christian fundamentalists. I'm 
already getting pelted during question time by the CI faction in 
Parliament, not to mention the Opposition, who are gearing up 
for a real field day with it. Plus the Pentecostal crew is likely to 
use this as an excuse to renew their demand that their new 
immigrants to the Republic come in as Bravos, without doing 
military service." 



H. A. Covington 

"Thus doubling their voting strength at a single stroke. 
How could they possibly use this case to make a totally 
unrelated political demand?" asked Don. 

"They'll find a way. believe me." chuckled Morgan. 
"Which I can't grant them, because then the OBA probably 
would try to stage a coup. They are painfully conscious that 
Christians are a majority in this country, and if I automatically 
hand a militant Christian sect the two votes apiece that come 
with B citizenship, they'd have a legitimate grievance. The 
Republic is walking a religious tightrope of the kind that no 
white society has experienced since seventeenth century 
Europe. Don. and balance has to be maintained. You earn your 
citizenship and you earn your votes through service to the state 
and service to society, not as a bribe for political peace. We ever 
start handing out citizenship and votes as patronage, it will be 
the beginning of a potentially fatal corruption in our system. 
Hit war just that happened in the United States and I cain't let 
it happen here. This Andrews case has to be handled by the 
numbers, with everything on the table. There mustn't be the 
slightest hint of a cover-up. Otherwise the CIs and the 
Pentecostals will be all over my ass like ugly on an ape, in 
Parliament and out, all in the name of Yahweh and the great 
jumping Jesus, of course." 

'The problem with having a Parliament based on the old 
Rhodesian model is that forty percent of it is allocated for the 
Opposition," Don reminded him dryly. "Now, if we had a 
unitary National Socialist state... " 

"Damn, don't you start!" snapped Morgan in 
exasperation. "I get enough of that from the NS benches! At 
least the Nazis don't have this damned religion bug up their 
ass! Sometimes I think they're the most balanced and rational 
of the lot." 

"I have often wondered how the Fiihrer would have 
viewed a situation where National Socialism is considered to be 
a force for moderation?" chuckled Don in delight. 

"I think he's looking down on us from Valhalla and 
laughing his Austrian ass off. What the hell was ever wrong 



The Hill of the Ravens 

with good old-fashioned hoot-and-holler religion?" grumbled 
the State President. "You work your butt off all week, you get 
drunk and raise a little hell on Saturday night, then the wife 
drags you to church on Sunday morning with a hangover and 
you sing and jump for Jesus, then you go have a big lunch and 
go fishing in the afternoon. That's how life is supposed to be, 
goddamit! What the hell was wrong with that? Who needs all 
this rapture shit anyway? Ain't a damned thing in the Bible 
about it. Iffen that good Old Time Religion was good enough for 
Stonewall Jackson it ought to be good enough for us!" Redmond 
smiled inwardly. He knew that John Corbett Morgan was one of 
the most acute, ruthless and eclectic statesmen of his age or any 
other, with a mind like a steel trap, a man who was entirely 
capable of holding his own in any scientific, economic or 
political discussion with any other world leader. And yet his 
occasional lapses into Kentucky hillbilly were not affectations. 
They were the true soul of the man himself. For the Northwest 
Republic, or any other nation on earth, to be led by a bona fide 
man of the people was an event rare in history. To be w ell led by 
such a man was a gift of God. Or the gods. "I ever tell you how 
we ended up with A Mighty Fortress Is Our God as our national 
anthem?" 

He had. but it was one the stories from the Time of 
Struggle that Don never tired of hearing. Morgan plunged into 
it without asking further. "After weeks of incredibly tense 
negotiations at Longview, when we damned near had to go for 
our guns and shoot our way out a dozen times, we finally 
browbeat and arm-twisted those bastards into giving us our 
own country. Then at the last goddamned minute, when we were 
all set to walk out and tell the world that the white race would 
live, that it had all been worth something... guess what? The 
damned tub-thumping... I'm sorry, certain of our brave and 
loyal comrades of the Biblical persuasion threatened to break 
the whole deal, walk out and start all the fighting and bombing 
and burning again, over the earth-shaking issue of what the hell 
song we would play when we ran up the first official Tricolor! 
They wanted Onward Christian Soldiers, then the Nazis 



H. A. Covington 

demanded the Horst Wessel Lied, and the Odinists wanted 
Wagner. Thank God for that angel in human form, Cathy Frost! 
While we all argued and made fools of ourselves in front of the 
President of the United States, the commissioners from the U. 
N.... the International Red Cross delegation and all the enemy 
generals who wanted to keep on fighting and killing us. she 
managed to convince us to play A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. It 
was Christian enough for the tub-thumpers, and German 
enough for the Nazis, and she just plain shamed the Odinists 
into shutting the hell up when she pulled up her blouse and 
showed... what was done to her. The holy rollers liked it since it 
was written by Martin Luther so they could score one off the 
Whore of Babylon in Rome. The fate of our race hanging in the 
balance and there they all were, blathering about Whores of 
Babylon! Cathy said it had some kind of personal meaning for 
her. Well, now it has meaning for everyone. Thank God one of 
our people had the Mormon Tabernacle Choir version on CD for 
the speaker system and we went ahead and did it before 
everybody changed their mind, or we probably would have 
ended up with another five years of war!" 

"You want a trial on Andrews, you got a trial." conceded 
Redmond with a shrug. "You're the boss of BOSS. sir. Hell, 
maybe once the Parkers get their brains lasered squeaky clean 
and go through reconstruction they'll become devout holy 
rollers and spend their Sundays handling snakes and jumping 
for Jesus. Now what's this other assignment you have for me?" 

"It's a ghost story." said the president with a straight 
face. 

"I beg your pardon, sir?" asked Redmond politely. "I 
thought you usually told us those at Halloween over the 
roasting hot dogs and marshmallows?" 

"Actually, those are just old Manley Wade Wellman 
stories I ad lib," Morgan confessed. "But this is a real one. A 
ghost from our past has come back to haunt us." 

"Does this ghost have a name?" asked Redmond. 

"She does." replied Morgan. "Trudy Greiner." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"What?" roared Don. stunned, leaping to his feet in 
amazement, his cigar ash falling onto the carpet unnoticed. 

"I said Trudy Greiner." Morgan opened his desk drawer 
and handed Redmond a piece of paper encased in clear glassine 
plastic that he took from a folder. "This is a letter that my office 
received yesterday, supposedly from the Los Angeles metroplex, 
although there's no way to tell where it actually originated." 

"There's no mail service between the Republic and 
Aztlan." pointed out Redmond, holding the encased letter up to 
the light. "From what I gather, there's precious little mail 
service in Aztlan. God. this is crap paper! The eco-freaks down 
there must have recycled it six or eight times. It's about to fall 
apart! Well, at least she's still speaking English and not 
Spanglish. Proper Mexican Spanish, now that I can speak and 
read and write from my language training at Sandpoint, but I 
still haven't quite mastered that shit half-language the 
Americans speak now, for all the stuff I have to read in it that 
comes across my desk. It's even worse than Puerto Rican." 

"I know there's no mail service from Aztlan." responded 
Morgan. "This letter was carried by one of the private courier 
companies who specialize in smuggling mail into and out of the 
NAR. The Mexicans generally overlook it. They treat it as a kind 
of necessary evil and they have sense enough to know they can't 
completely suppress all contact. As to the paper, she was 
probably lucky even to get that if she's really living in L. A., 
with all the constant shortage of the basics down there." 
Redmond read the paper out loud. 

To the Honorable John Corbett Morgan State 
President, Northwest American Republic 
Longview- House Olympia, Washington 

Mr. President: 

You may be surprised to hear from me after 
all this time the Republic has spent trying to hunt me 
down and kill me. I am writing to tell you that you 
can stop looking. 



H. A. Covington 



I'm tired of living among strangers. I'm tired 
of running and hiding all my life for a crime I did 
not commit. I am going to put an end to it. It is my 
intention to exercise the right that belongs to every 
other Aryan man and woman the world over. I am 
Coming Home. I have gotten an exit visa from the 
Aitkin government, never mind how. On October 
22 nd of this year, the anniversary of the Coeur 
d'Alene uprising, I will walk into the Republic at the 
old Interstate Five border crossing at Mountain 
Gate, California. If you want to shoot me down on 
sight or hang me from the first tree on the white side 
of the border, then go ahead. I don 7 care anymore. 
You '11 be murdering an innocent woman, but I 
would rather die in the country I gave my youth and 
my heart to bring into being than live in this mud- 
colored horror down here for one more day. 

If you don't kill me outright, then I demand a 
public trial or court martial on the charges against 
me. I did not betray the Olympic Flying Column. I 
would have given up my own life for Tom Murdock, 
for Melanie Young, and for any one of my beloved 
comrades without a moment's hesitation. Even 
though forty years of hell have passed, I still mourn 
them all every day. I can no longer live with this lie, 
this terrible accusation. It is wrong. I don't deserve 
this. I can't stand it anymore. I swear to you by my 
immortal soul that I am innocent. As a soldier of the 
Northwest Volunteer Army (I was never officially 
discharged) I demand the right to live and to die by 
the laws of my beloved country, and to clear my 
name should God in His infinite mercy grant me 
that deliverance. If not, then let His will be done. 

Yours truly, 

Volunteer Gertrude Gr einer 



The Hill of the Ravens 

P. S. I am attaching something below that I have 
always been willing to give for the Homeland, even 
during all the years you were hunting for me. 

Below the PS was a brown thumbprint in blood. 

"Holy Christ!" muttered Don, stunned. 

"And here I thought you were a National Socialist?" asked 
Morgan with a grim smile. 

"I am. That means I can swear by Christ and the Aesir both 
with a clear conscience," said Redmond. "Trudy Greiner, the last of 
the revolutionary traitors, is coming out of hiding after more than 
thirty years? She must have lost her mind!" 

"That would seem to be about the only way we might manage 
to catch her," replied Morgan dryly. "No other target has been so 
successful in escaping our hunters. We hadn't even caught a lingering 
scent of her for years. It was as if she'd dropped off the face of the 
planet. BOSS and WPB had about come to the conclusion she was 
dead and buried secretly somewhere under a false name." 

"How do you know it's not a hoax?" asked Redmond. "I 
assume the bloody thumbprint was for identification purposes, but 
both DNA and fingerprints can be faked. The Office of Northwest 
Recovery and our own War Prevention people do it all the time. Or it 
might be the woman who wrote it is one of their damned genetically 
engineered doubles, like that clone of Bill Vitale they tried to slip past 
us." 

"I know. Granted, it's possible that this is some kind of stroke 
from the ONR. But the Bureau's forensics lab gave the document a 
good going over, and the fact is that both thumbprint and DNA 
actually do match," replied Morgan. "Are they sure?" asked Don. 

"Positive. The Greiner woman was fingerprinted and DNA- 
typed by the FBI in Oregon after she was arrested for felony hatecrime 
over forty years ago, when she was a teeny-bopper. As you may recall, 
when ZOG officially pulled out of Portland some of the local red- 
white-and-blue yay-hoos decided Longview didn't mean them. We had 
to go in heavy and fight our way into the city street by street for three 
days before we cleaned them out. You remember the Battle of the 
Bridges?" 

"A historic moment," recalled Don with a smile "The first 
artillery barrage fired from Nazi cannons and the first rumble of Nazi 
tanks since 1945." 



H. A. Covington 

"You got it. Damn, boy, that was a sweet sound to mah ears! 
Remember it all like it was yesterday! Anyhow, an SS Action Group, 
ironically enough led by a certain young lieutenant named Bill Vitale, 
captured the Portland FBI headquarters before they could destroy 
their files and hard drives, so we have Trudy Greiner's DNA on record. 
My gut feeling is that the letter is legit. I can well imagine that she 
might eventually get so tired of looking over her shoulder for the 
hunters that she just wants it to be over." 

"I've heard of her, of course," mused Don. "Hell, so has every 
man, woman, and school child in the Republic. My kids grew up 
singing nasty nursery rhymes about Trudy Greiner, some of which 
made me wash out their mouths with soap when I overheard them. 
They use Trudy's face on targets at junior high school riflery ranges. 
The ultimate stukach, the traitor bitch who sent Tom Murdock and 
Melanie Young and fifty others of the proudest and bravest partisan 
unit in the NVA to their deaths in the ambush at Ravenhill Ranch, for 
cold hard cash. Our own Wicked Witch of the Northwest. What was 
her particular hatecrime back in the old days in Portland, just out of 
curiosity?" asked Redmond. 

"Hatecrime most foul," Morgan told him. "It was determined 
by the Zionist authorities that one Gertrude Greiner, aged seventeen, 
was responsible for inserting a politically incorrect joke into her high 
school annual. Something poking fun at female sexual perverts. Two 
double entendres punning the words 'Beaverton' and 'liquor trade.' 

Inflicting mental anguish, insensitivity to alternative lifestyles, 
creating a negative and unsupportive environment, all that happy 
horse shit. You're too young to remember, Don, but in those days a 
white person couldn't sneeze without offending some little pissant 
minority and going to jail. You have no idea what it was like to have to 
weigh and measure every word, to be constantly looking over your 
shoulder and whisper, never knowing when some monkoid or some 
pale-skinned wretch would turn you in to the thought police for the 
slightest casual remark. The men and women of our race lived in a 
perpetual state of fear and anxiety, and anyone with a white skin who 
dared to stand up against the regime was punished with maniacal 
intensity. Especially if they used wit or humor. ZOG's politically 
protected minorities could never stand being mocked, you know. 
Mockery undermined them more than anything else, they knew it, and 
they reacted to the slightest hint of disrespect with the ferocity of a 
wounded beast. Trudy's little joke about lesbians made the whole high 



The Hill of the Ravens 

school annual prohibited hate literature under the Dees Act, so it had 
to be recalled and the offending humor removed. Trudy was convicted 
by a Human Rights tribunal and served eighteen months. Her family 
was fined and forced to pay for the cost of reprinting the annual, 
minus political incorrectness. Trudy joined an NVA cell while she was 
in women's prison." 

"Trudy?" put in Redmond curiously. "You knew her personally, 
sir?" 

"I did," said Morgan. "Please let me proceed, Colonel." 

Redmond sensed a raw nerve. "Certainly, sir. But if you might 
refresh my memory, Mr. President? When did she get hooked up with 
Tom Murdock and the Olympic Flying Column?" 

"I spent this morning reviewing her file, just to make sure my 
memory hasn't gone soft on me after all these years," said Morgan. 
"Trudy Greiner was still in the slammer on 10/22, but she got out a 
few months later, legally restricted to Portland on parole. The uprising 
had been suppressed, but the guerrilla war in the countryside and the 
cities was heating up by then. In view of the political nature of her 
offense Trudy had to do some really fast talking to get sprung. She told 
the parole board all about how she'd learned to renounce hate and 
turned her life around, how she'd undergone this wonderful spiritual 
awakening since she'd been inside, claimed she'd had a passionate 
lesbian relationship with a wonderful Hispanic inmate... no, don't 
make that face, dammit, Don! We had to do those things in those 
days! Or at least say them! I took the Diversity Oath on four separate 
occasions myself, just so I could get a job running a forklift or stacking 
pallets in a warehouse alongside Filipinos and Somalis, because it was 
the only way I could feed my family, including that little lady you're 
married to. Remind me to tell you one day about the time during the 
guerrilla days when I caught up with this one particularly nasty-ass 
Puerto Rican foreman... " 

"Er, you have, sir," Redmond reminded him. "On more than 
one occasion. Including our last Christmas dinner. Kind of put me off 
cranberry sauce for a while." 

"So I did," agreed Morgan with a big rumbling laugh from deep 
inside his massive chest. "Well, it is one of my favorite stories. But you 
need to understand, hit war necessary to survive and fight on, and we 
all did things we weren't too proud of later. I didn't believe it about 
Trudy then, and I don't believe it now. She said what she had to say to 
get out of that hellhole so she could join in the struggle. They may or 



H. A. Covington 

may not have believed it, but they saw that she was burning the pinch 
of incense and making all the right noises, and so they let her go." 

"I am aware of the historical context in which the revolution 
took place, sir. I wasn't criticizing," said Redmond neutrally. 

"We all had to burn the occasional pinch of incense on the 
altars of Zion's false gods in order to survive," sighed Morgan. "But it 
still rankles. A lot of us old timers still ain't completely easy in our 
consciences about some of the choices we had to make in those days. 
Cindy El and Eva don't even know what a lesbian is, do they?" asked 
Morgan in wonder. "Ain't that a kicker? We grew up with all that filth 
being thrown in our faces every day, day after day and month after 
month and year after year until it became part of our whole lives and 
thought, and nowadays I bet my granddaughters don't even know." 

"No, sir," said Redmond in genuine gratitude. "So far as I am 
aware, they don't know what a lesbian is. That was what we were 
fighting for, remember? So that little girls can grow up to womanhood 
without ever hearing the word lesbian, among many other things. You 
and the men of your generation saw to it that my children grew up not 
just safe, but clean. Like I said, Mr. President, I am aware of the 
historical context." 

"We saw to it, Don. You should remember some of it, too. You 
were there. You earned that green, white, and blue ribbon on your 
lapel, young 'un. I should know. I pinned it on you." 

"I remember some, but it was long ago. As for this medal, well, 
when I was twelve I wouldn't have known a political idea if it walked 
up and kicked me in the ass. I knew I didn't like the punk Mexican and 
Chinese kids who robbed my paper route money, and I remembered 
enough from back in Carolina to avoid anyone with a black skin, but 
that was about the sum of it. I was there largely for Sarah, sir," 
concluded Redmond frankly. 

"I know, son, and I've always loved you for it. But hit war 
always better to do the right thing for the wrong reason, or well, 
maybe a different right reason in your case, than to do the wrong thing 
for any reason. Anyway, as I was saying before you got me off on an 
old man's blather, because of her Dees Act conviction Trudy Greiner 
had to register with the FBI as a subversive and wear a tracking 
bracelet on her ankle, which she promptly cut off. She was too well 
known in Portland, so she went on the run. She made it to Seattle and 
made contact with the NVA There she was assigned to a 
quartermaster team in Bremerton. That put her on the west side of the 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Sound and gave her familiarity with what would become the Olympic 
Flying Column's operational area. She helped set up safe houses and 
apartments, she made false ID, she maintained arms caches, she 
handled money through various covert Party bank accounts, and she 
helped to run an underground printing press and distribute Party 
propaganda leaflets which would have gotten her life without parole. 
She was brave, she was a good soldier, she kept her cool and thought 
fast on her feet, and her teammates admired and respected her. Every 
assignment she was given went seamlessly and was never 
compromised. As far as anyone could see at the time, the FBI and the 
FATPOs never got a line on her. Trudy had the ideal undercover 
operatives' ability to become invisible in a crowd. Maybe that period of 
her life was where she acquired the skills she later used to evade our 
hunter squads. If she was always a rat for the Feds then she must have 
been really deep cover. My guess is that if she went bad, it must have 
happened later on." 

"If she went bad?" asked Don, intrigued. 

"I'm getting there, son," admonished Morgan. "After a year, in 
view of her proven expertise she was assigned to the Olympic Flying 
Column's support crew. That meant she lived in town but she helped 
to obtain and transport weapons, ammunition, medical and other 
supplies and so on to the Column. It was complex and dangerous 
work. She had to do a lot of driving around the woods and the 
mountains of the Olympic peninsula in the dark, hauling a car or 
pickup truck full of contraband, going miles along rural highways and 
fire roads with no lights to avoid aerial surveillance. She had to talk 
her way past roadblocks using fake ID and travel permits with thirty 
thousand dollars, ten boxes of ammo and twenty pounds of C-4 
hidden in her car, hoping to God our science nerds had packed them 
right to hide them from the sniffer dogs and Fattie sensor devices. A 
lot of our people in her job died at those checkpoints. But she was 
damned good at it. She carried out dozens of successful rendezvous 
without a hitch and transmitted vital supplies, weaponry, and money 
to Tom Murdock and his crew. Murdock trusted her absolutely. I 
know that because he told me so." 

"You were in regular contact with the Column, sir?" asked 
Redmond. 

"Yes. Broadly speaking, Tom's outfit worked the southern part 
of the Olympic down to Tacoma and us Port Townsend boys had our 
stomping grounds in the north, although there was a lot of overlap. 



H. A. Covington 

Corey Nash was our liaison, carrying occasional messages we could no 
way risk on the phone, and we were even able to pull off some joint 
operations, like the attack on the aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy that 
led to the Americans pulling the U. S. Navy out of the Puget Sound 
and shutting down the Bremerton naval base. Plus Murdock and I met 
several times at various safe houses and other secure locations when it 
was necessary to take care of business and exchange intelligence." 

"It also meant that Trudy Greiner was one of the few people 
who could communicate with the Column at need, and who would 
have some knowledge of where at least a few of them would be at any 
given time," Redmond pointed out. "She was also one of the few 
Volunteers who operated on her own and was out of sight of the others 
for extended periods of time, during which she might have made 
contact with the enemy." 

"That point didn't escape us back then, son. Hit war one of the 
reasons she was suspected after Ravenhill Ranch." 

"Now, if memory serves, on that day the Olympic Flying 
Column were on their way to attack the Kitsap County Courthouse in 
Port Orchard?" asked Redmond, searching his memory. 

"Yes," Morgan confirmed. "The one that used to be on Division 
Street. The Special Criminal Court was sitting there that day. You 
know, the one ZOG tried to set up when the secret military tribunals 
became too much of a political embarrassment. The idea being to try 
and slap a purty civilian legal fig leaf on what was by then pretty much 
a military dictatorship in the United States. It was some kind of 
executive session or whatever that day, so none of our own prisoners 
were scheduled to be in the building. That made it a good time to hit 
the place and see if we could barbecue a few of the big pigs in the black 
robes, not to mention as many lawyers as we could send to hell." 

"Four surviving members of the Column actually did take out 
the courthouse out that morning," recalled Redmond. 

"Yes. Volunteers Frank Palmieri, Dragutin Saltovic, Edward 
McCanless and Brittany McCanless. The last members of the Column 
accomplished their mission even in the face of the disaster that 
overtook their unit at Ravenhill, which has added to the legend of that 
day, and deservedly so. The original plan was to use a mortar truck, 
iron pipes stacked on a flatbed trailer, each tube loaded with a charge 
and a home-made shell. An old Provisional IRA tactic we'd been 
wanting to try for a long time. A special hydraulic lift elevated the 
pipes into firing position, the driver set his timer, got out and ran like 
hell, and the mortars detonated. They destroyed the truck when they 



The Hill of the Ravens 

went off, but they also launched their shells into the air, that is if the 
damned things worked right. They weren't very accurate, and you had 
to make really sure you positioned the vehicle correctly and got your 
elevation down pat. If your unit's science nerd had miscalculated the 
ballistics or the strength of the barrel charges you'd get mortar bombs 
dropping all over everywhere in the neighborhood except the target. If 
everything went according to plan, some Federal position hiding 
behind razor wire, sandbags and concrete walls suddenly had about a 
ton of high explosive dropping down from the sky on top of 'em. The 
trick was to position the truck just right and work out the elevation 
just right to make sure you didn't miss and blow up Joe's barber shop 
and the diner down the block." 

"I remember the truck mortars, sir," said Redmond. 

"Yeah, despite what happened at Ravenhill we didn't give up, 
and we eventually got pretty good at making those little poppers. Got 
so we could rig up vans with false roofs that came off when the mortar 
barrels were unlimbered, white phosphorus shells, all kinds of tweaks 
and interesting features. If Murdock had succeeded in his mission, it 
would have been the first truck mortar attack. As things were, the four 
surviving Volunteers didn't have time to mess with raising the barrels 
from the planned firing position, where they would have been without 
covering fire from the rest of the Column. They had to improvise, so 
they simply rammed the truck into the courthouse lobby and blew it. I 
remember we were able to get a van into Fort Lewis one night and 
level the officer's mess from half a mile away," recalled Morgan with a 
reminiscent chuckle. 

"Mmm, if memory serves, the truck was driven into Port 
Orchard separately from the bulk of the column," pointed out 
Redmond. "That's how the four survivors were able to complete the 
mission. Why was that, Mr. President?" 

"Commandant Murdock ordered it done that way." 

"Why?" asked Don. 

"No idea. So far as we have been able to determine, he didn't 
explain to anyone at the time why he did so. We know he handpicked 
the four Volunteers who drove the truck, two in the cab and two in a 
scout car. Palmieri, Saltovic, and the McCanlesses are all still alive, as 
well as four more men who weren't with the main body of the Column 
when it was ambushed. They may be able to answer that," said 
Morgan. 

"I remember from an old Northwest Broadcasting Authority 
documentary show, I think it was called 'Incident At Ravenhill', that 



H. A. Covington 

the Feds originally claimed the FATPO ambush that destroyed the 
column was a triumph for their spy satellite system," said Redmond. 
"Infra-red heat and motion detectors, an evil racist white mouse 
couldn't move on the ground without their knowing about it, so forth 
and so on." 

"They tried to claim that, yeah, but it was crap," growled the 
old warrior. "I'm old enough to remember before the rebellion. Some 
of the nervous Nellie nay-sayers in our own ranks claimed that white 
guerrilla warfare in North America was impossible because of orbital 
surveillance and other things in ZOG's little bag of pyrotechnic tricks. 
Well, the Nervous Nellies were wrong. There was, in fact, a clear and 
applicable historical precedent, our weaklings just didn't want to face 
up to it. From 1969 onward, the Provisional IRA fought a sustained 
guerrilla campaign in Northern Ireland, largely in an urban setting, 
against the wealth, manpower and technology of Great Britain. Yeah, I 
know they were Marxist scum, but the fact remained that the Provos 
showed it could be done, if we just had the guts and the dedication. 
Ordinary men were not powerless in the face of the New World Order. 
The bigger and more complex ZOG was, the more vulnerable they 
were to a few brave men with weapons in their hands and the courage 
to use them." 

"My God, in 2001 the United States was almost brought to a 
standstill by four crashing aircraft hijacked with box cutters!" 
commented Don. "How could anyone claim it was impossible to bring 
down the Beast? Nineteen young Arabs damned near did it on their 
own!" 

"When white men in the Northwest finally screwed our 
courage to the sticking point, we largely followed the Provos' example. 
Hell, we even stole their rebel songs!" added Morgan with a smile. 
"You'll recall that I commanded my own column out in the boonies of 
the Olympic for almost three years, and I can tell you that the Feds' 
much-vaunted super-duper spy satellites and their drone aircraft were 
never all that accurate. Kind of like the Zeppelins during World War 
One. A technological advance that was supposed to be decisive, but it 
fizzled in practice. It was all in the interpretation, and the people they 
had analyzing all that satellite data were more often than not 
affirmative action bozos and bitches who didn't have a clue what the 
hell they were looking at. I've often said, we didn't win the war against 
ZOG, their own diversity lost it for them. So many of their people were 
incompetents who were where they were and doing the jobs they were 



The Hill of the Ravens 

doing because of the color of their skin, or because they had tits on 
'em. Hell, as long ago as the Afghanistan and Iraq invasions, Bush IPs 
idiots used to order in massive bombing raids on wedding parties and 
school buses because they had no idea who was who. Why do you 
think the Afghans finally rebelled en masse against the American 
occupation and the American puppet government in Kabul? ZOG 
couldn't even find their real enemies on barren mountainsides or in 
wide open deserts, never mind mountains covered with trees. The fact 
was that during the war, as far as our open country active service units 
were concerned, the Feds never learned to distinguish between our 
people and ordinary travelers, hunters, logging crews, park rangers, 
firefighters, local residents, sheep and cattle, wild animals, their own 
military convoys, whatever. The Eye in the Sky was a danger, to be 
sure, like a hundred others we faced, but we eventually learned to 
evade it the same way the Iraqis and the Serbs and every other smaller 
power ZOG attacked learned to evade it. Simple camouflage. Hide in 
plain sight. Blend in with crowds. Dummy vehicles and Quaker guns, 
you name it. It was just one more problem we had to deal with, and we 
dealt with it. Faking out the satellites eventually became second 
nature and we got on with the business of killing ZOG. Actually, it was 
a lot more dangerous for a Volunteer to be assigned to an active 
service unit in one of the cities, where you might be ratted out by some 
pale-skinned traitor who wanted the OHS reward money. Other than 
that one incident at Ravenhill Ranch, they never succeeded in 
completely destroying any other Flying Column. The Olympic Flying 
Column was betrayed by an informer, Don." 

"With all due respect, sir, how do we know that?" asked 
Redmond. 

"Well, for one thing, we have the testimony of a FATPO 
defector who came over to us right after Ravenhill," said Morgan. 
"Arthur McBride, his name is. Brought two more FATPOs in from the 
cold with him. They're both dead, but McBride is still alive. Rose to 
Command Sergeant Major in the army after the war, then went into 
the Labor Service. He's retired now, a widower. Married a female 
Volunteer, Brooke Arnold. Little chubby blonde girl with the heart of a 
lion, who as far as I am concerned was up to Melanie Young 
standards, but that's just my personal opinion. Brooke never had any 
songs written about her, Melanie did. Guess that's the way it plays out 
in history sometimes. McBride lives up in Bremerton. He was there 
when that nigger major took the call from the rat, or from someone 
who was in contact with the rat. Took the call on his personal cell 



H. A. Covington 

phone, not an official or a military phone or computer. That's 
important. The Ravenhill ambush was not something that came down 
from the FBI or the Office of Homeland Security. It was something set 
up between that monkoid Coleman and a stukach he was working 
himself. McBride was questioned very seriously at the time, you better 
believe it. I grilled him myself, but he swore he didn't know who the 
informant was. It rang true at the time and I still think McBride was 
telling the truth, that he honestly didn't know who the traitor was, but 
I ain't anywhere near perfect and for all I know, maybe I missed 
something. McBride might be a good starting point for your 
investigation, Don." 

"Noted, sir. But this McBride guy aside, what about all those 
FBI and FATPO records we captured during the final assault on the 
cities, sir? What did they say about Ravenhill Ranch?" 

"Damned little," growled Morgan. "Which is odd. That in itself 
tells me something. Hit war one of their greatest victories against us, 
yet there was almost nothing in their own records about it. They kept 
that incident well under wraps, even from their own people. There was 
something heavy moving in the shade there." 

Don spoke bluntly. "Mr. President, let me be absolutely clear 
on precisely what my orders are from you in this matter. In view of the 
possible return of Trudy Greiner, you want me to investigate and 
ascertain the true facts regarding what happened to the Olympic 
Flying Column almost forty years ago? An incident that occurred 
before the majority of the population of this country was even born? 
And you want me to do this in a matter of just a few days, before 
Gertrude Greiner rocks up at the I-5 crossing and embarrasses the hell 
out of the Republic with her demand for a public trial? A public trial at 
which, after an entire generation of hate propaganda and accusation, 
we might not after all be able to produce any real evidence that might 
satisfy the world that she's guilty?" 

"That would be accurate, Colonel, yes," returned President 
Morgan. 

"Why?" demanded Redmond bluntly. "Don't get me wrong, 
John. You know I'm fascinated with that part of our history and I'd 
love nothing better than an excuse to jaw-jack with old NVA vets 
about the past and get paid for it. But this cuts a wee bit too close to 
the bone for me to enjoy it as part of my hobby. Is there any particular 
reason you are asking me to undo three decades of anti-Trudy Greiner 
propaganda at this point in our national life? Why not just grab her 
when she walks across the border, take her off somewhere, shoot her 



The Hill of the Ravens 

in the head and grind her up into fertilizer like we did with all the 
scum during the Cleanup? Like we still do on occasion when 
circumstances seem to demand it?" 

"Moral dimension, son," sighed Morgan. "That accursed moral 
dimension that the Old Man taught us to exalt above all things, damn 
his decrepit hyper-ethical ass! Shit, why couldn't he have been a 
cynical opportunist like all the rest of his Movement generation? You 
know the Old Man's rap. What makes us different from them and all 
that happy horse shit. There are... certain inconvenient facts." 

"I beg your pardon, sir?" asked Redmond. "Certain 
inconvenient facts? What facts might those be?" 

"Like the fact that I don't think she did it," replied Morgan 
softly, looking out the window down at the slim blue line of the South 
Sound, gleaming through the firs. "Because, God damn her, Trudy 
Greiner may in fact be innocent. If she had any real respect at all for 
what we have achieved, she'd stay the hell away and stay the hell 
guilty. But it doesn't look like we're going to have that luxury, son." 

Redmond was silent for a few moments. "She may be 
innocent?" he said, his voice filled with quiet horror. "She may be 
innocent? And you have done nothing about that in all the time you 
have been our head of state?" 

"That would be correct," replied Morgan. 

"Mr. President, coming from you, that is a statement so 
breath-taking that I will not at this stage comment upon it," said 
Redmond evenly, recovering himself. "What I am hearing here is that 
we might have lied to our own countrymen for almost forty years. You 
have just denied and negated a primary nation-building legend from 
the crucial first generation of this country's existence, but we'll leave 
that for the time being. So we're practicing a little historical 
revisionism here today? May I ask why you don't think she did it?" 

"She was a good soldier, Don," said Morgan, not looking at 
him. 

"You said that before, sir," pointed out Redmond. 

"I have always thought that," continued Morgan, ignoring him. 

"She was a good soldier. There was steel in her soul, Don, the 
right stuff, the real stuff, the true stuff. After a time you got to 
recognize it, and if I ever was deceived, hit war the only time with her. 
But I think she was a brave and noble woman who somehow ended up 
being terribly victimized, and I will go to my grave believing that." 



H. A. Covington 

Redmond understood he was getting involved in something 
extremely deep. "How well did you know her, Mr. President?" he 
asked. Morgan looked at him. "Sarah's mother has been dead for 
years, sir. I repeat that I know the context of the revolution and I have 
no intention of making moralizing judgments. I will also give you my 
word that anything you tell me will be kept in strictest confidentiality, 
meaning I won't tell Sarah without your permission. But if you want 
me to look into this letter and re-examine the Ravenhill Ranch 
incident, then I need to know everything." 

"I never slept with her, if that's what you're getting at," said the 
president with a smile. "I was still married at the time I met Trudy, 
although the war had separated me from my wife for a long time. I 
was... very fond of Trudy. I had some dealings with her in the year 
before she was assigned to the Olympic Flying Column, and I met her 
on several occasions afterward. I admired her very much, and if you 
want to get Biblical about it, yeah, I suppose I committed adultery 
with her in my heart. A beautiful, fiery young woman who was just as 
dedicated as I was to the cause of securing the existence of our people 
and a future for white children... yeah, I was tempted. Damned 
tempted. Circumstances never played out to where I got the chance to 
do anything one way or the other about those thoughts, for which I 
will always thank God. I doubt Trude would have gone for it anyway. 
She viewed me as a comrade and nothing more, and I was always 
taught that a gentleman can take no for an answer. Besides, after a 
while it became pretty obvious that she only had eyes for Tom 
Murdock, and he was a better man than me. Yes he was, Don, and I 
was never jealous of him, for that or for any other reason. If he had 
lived, then Tom Murdock would be living in this house today and not 
me, and we'd all be the better off for it." 

"Did Murdock have eyes for her?" asked Don. 

"My understanding is they were involved for a time, and then 
Murdock broke it off to go with Melanie Young." said Morgan. 

"Which gives Trudy Greiner a far more urgent and human 
motive for betrayal than mere money, hell having no fury like a 
woman scorned," said Redmond. "That aspect of it doesn't seem to 
have made it into our history books." 

"For obvious political reasons. As far as the official record 
goes, the Olympic Flying Column is a tale of pure and fearless heroism 
and noble sacrifice for our people, and I have to say that's not all that 
damned far from the truth. The Olympic boys and girls were our finest 
and bravest partisans, Don. They never shirked danger and went for 



The Hill of the Ravens 

the soft targets like some, and they never went kill-crazy like Oglevy's 
crew and others did. They fought their war with a courage and a 
gallantry that would have done credit to the Confederate Army. Tom 
Murdock and Melanie Young are our anointed revolutionary icons of 
manly courage and honor and female beauty and virtue, while Trudy 
Greiner is an icon of evil, which is what we needed and what we still 
need. Icons, mystique, a theology in black and white that will make 
sure a thousand years from now there are still people who look like us 
in the world. The War of Independence is the greatest saga of the Folk 
since our very creation of America itself. It must not be allowed to 
become a cheap soap opera." 

"Be that as it may, I'd say that the romantic angle, as we'll call 
it, makes it even more likely that she's guilty," said Redmond. 
"If Trudy had lost it and plugged Murdock or Melanie in some kind of 
jealous rage, yeah, I could see that happening, but I just can't see her 
betraying the whole column and the very cause of independence and 
white survival itself!" cried Morgan in pain. "I'm not saying she's not 
guilty, Don, I'm just saying I don't think she is, and I admit I have no 
evidence to back up that conviction. The accusation against Trudy tore 
my guts out, son, but from the available evidence I had to accept that 
she had betrayed us, betrayed her country, and betrayed her race. Yet 
all these years I have secretly hoped to get a letter like the one you 
hold there. That's why I'd like you to take this on yourself, Don. It 
means a lot, not just to history and the Republic, but to me. If she is 
coming back, then she's not the beautiful and purposeful young 
woman I once knew, I know that. 

She'll be old and gray and someone completely different from 
the girl I always see in my mind. But there will be a connection 
between that old lady and the young warrior maiden I knew. If she 
does come back, and if she can't prove her innocence, then I'm the one 
who will have to sign the paper that sends her to her death. I'll sign 
that paper if I have to, Don, but I have to know whether or not she's 
guilty before I do." 

Don shrugged and drew on his cigar. "Okay, let's assume for 
the moment that I didn't grow to manhood on the Trudy Greiner 
legend, that I haven't seen any of the TV shows or the movies about 
the Olympic Flying Column wherein she is portrayed as the daughter 
of Satan. Let me do the old detective trick here, since technically I'm 
supposed to be one. In any crime, the guilty party has to have three 
things: motive, means, and opportunity. Trudy Greiner qualifies on 



H. A. Covington 

motive because motive itself breaks down into three kinds: passion, 
profit, and protection, and all three might well apply to her. There was 
her rejection by Tom Murdock. There was the million dollars she was 
allegedly paid for her act of treachery. And there was the motive of 
protection, if she was a Federal spy and possibly someone had found 
her out. If that was the case, that might be why the whole column had 
to die. Murdock or whoever suspected her as a traitor might have told 
someone else and so any potential witnesses had to be eliminated. 
Now what about means and opportunity? Refresh my memory some 
more, Mr. President. Exactly what was the evidence against Gertrude 
Greiner? What led NVA intelligence to believe that she betrayed the 
column?" 

"Cutting through thirty years' encrustation of hearsay, urban 
legend, and crap, hit war two things only," said Morgan morosely. 
"The first being that Greiner was one of nine people who had means 
and opportunity, who could conceivably have tipped off the FATPOs 
about the unit's movements. Only nine people survived, all of whom 
were somewhere else." 

"Agreed," said Don. "I think we can take it as a working 
proposition that like most people the informer was not suicidal, and 
so somehow arranged to be on detached duty rather than ride into the 
deadly ambush he or she had just set up." 

"As you said earlier, Trude operated on her own in urban areas 
organizing supplies and logistics for the column, and so she had the 
opportunity to make contact with the Federal authorities or somehow 
directly with Monkey Meat Coleman. A much better opportunity than 
any of the others, although some like Volunteers Cord, Palmieri, and 
Saltovic did do supply runs and other missions on their own." 

"Wasn't it standard operating procedure to always send 
Volunteers on any mission in pairs?" recalled Redmond. 
"It wasn't always practical to follow that rule, and also after a while the 
Feds picked up on it and started concentrating random traffic stops, 
searches, and harassment on pairs of white people they observed in 
public," Morgan explained. "So yes, some of the other eight are known 
to have done occasional single tasks or trips into town for the column, 
and it is entirely likely that all of them did at one time or another. But 
more significantly, after the massacre at Ravenhill Ranch the first 
eight Volunteers stayed at their posts. Some of them have since held 
eminent and responsible positions in the Republic's government, in 
the Party, and in society. Trudy Greiner went AWOL. She disappeared 
off the face of the earth. She broke contact with the NVA the morning 



The Hill of the Ravens 

of the ambush, and that letter you're holding in your hand is the first 
solid lead we have had on her whereabouts in almost forty years. If 
she wasn't guilty, Don, then why did she run?" 

"She may tell us when she gets here," suggested Don. 

"That's what I'm afraid of. The second thing was that on the 
morning of July 3l st , the day before Ravenhill, a one million dollar 
deposit was made into a covert Party bank account at the Westlake 
branch of the Bank of America in Seattle. One of Trudy Greiner's 
covert accounts. It was a wire transfer from a corporation in 
Hamilton, Bermuda, which corporation appeared and then 
disappeared forever, having performed that one single financial 
transaction. This deposit was made day before the column was 
slaughtered by the FATPOs, Don." 

"Premeditation," said Don, sending a curl of cigar smoke into 
the air. "Someone was setting it up. Someone knew what was coming." 

"Yes. That million bucks did not come from any known Party 
or NVA source. Jesus, I don't think the Party ever had a million dollars 
in the bank until some years after independence, never mind during 
the revolution itself. The day after the ambush, August the second, a 
young woman matching Trudy Greiner's description, who had ID in 
that name and knew Trudy Greiner's password and account details 
and who passed an electronic fingerprint scan, came into the bank and 
withdrew that entire amount in the form of a certified cashier's check. 
The check was made out to Gertrude Greiner. After the war we were 
able to obtain an affidavit to that effect from the vice president of the 
bank who issued the draft along with the computer printouts for the 
transaction." 

"Do we know for certain that Trudy Greiner was the woman 
who withdrew the money?" asked Don Redmond. 

"There were bank security camera videos, but they have long 
since disappeared. No, Colonel, we do not know for absolute certain 
that it was Trudy Greiner who took that money and fled. Even in those 
days fingerprinting could be forged; the Israeli Mossad made a 
practice of it. Nor were we ever able to trace the certified check. We 
have no idea on earth where it was ever cashed or deposited. By the 
time the Republic's intelligence services were in any position to do any 
such thing the paper trail had become far too old and cold." 

"Cold as ice then, yeah. It's goddamned Antarctic now, and the 
evidence has been eaten by penguins. You still want me to try and find 
out the truth at this late date? You need a historian, not a cop!" 



H. A. Covington 

"That part of our history is still too close for comfort and there 
are still things in some of those closed dossiers down in the basement 
of the Temple of Justice that could come back to bite us," Morgan told 
him. "This incident prominent among them. You have to understand, 
Don, that if Trudy Greiner is innocent, then the potential for an 
ungodly scandal is very much present. Besides Trudy herself there are 
eight survivors of the Olympic Flying Column. Seven men and one 
woman. If one of those eight is a traitor who has lived among us all 
this time, then it will shake the very foundations of this nation to the 
core." 

"Who are those survivors, sir?" asked Don. 

"Two of them are now senior military officers, and that worries 
the hell out of me. Admiral David Leach is the Kriegsmarine Chief of 
Staff. He has been rightly called the father of the Northwest Republic's 
navy, today the fourth most powerful in the world after China, the 
European Union, and Russia. Another of the survivors is a very senior 
civil servant, Frank Palmieri, who is currently Minister of Transport 
for the NAR. He might equally well be called the father of our public 
transportation system, acknowledged even by our bitterest enemies to 
be the best in the world. Another veteran of the Olympic Flying 
Column is one of the Republic's most brilliant scientists, Dr. Joseph 
Cord. A genius in his own field of applied particle beam technology 
and quantum physics, and the inventor of the atomic fusion engine 
who bears a large part of the credit for making our space program 
possible. Not to mention his invention of the plasma anti-aircraft 
weapons systems that broke American air power, and which have 
made the very existence of this country as a free and independent 
nation possible, as well as the existence of a hundred other small 
sovereign states throughout the world. Cord is a difficult man to like 
and work with, like many geniuses... hell, the man is an arrogant ass. I 
have to meet him on occasion in my official capacity and every time I 
do I feel like I've just finished eight hours of moving furniture. But 
Joseph Cord put an end to the American Empire when his plasma ray 
weapons delivered to humanity a way to bring those terrible bombers 
and missiles down out of the sky, no matter how high up they tried to 
hide while they dropped their cowardly bombs. ZOG had to come 
down out of the sky and face their victims man to man on the ground, 
and they've been on the retreat ever since. Yet another survivor of 
Murdock's command is the concert pianist and composer Dragutin 
Saltovic, a virtuoso of international renown and a national hero in his 
native Serbia. He's so damned good that his is the only classical music 



The Hill of the Ravens 

except Wagner I could ever listen to; the man saved me from a lifetime 
of George Jones. The remaining three survivors have spent the past 
thirty-odd years since the revolution in private life. Former Volunteer 
Lars Frierson is a high school teacher in The Dalles, Oregon. Former 
Volunteers Edward and Brittany McCanless are Old Believers who run 
a book and sundries shop in Centralia. One thing you need to know 
about the McCanlesses is that for a brief period, before they joined the 
Party in pre-revolutionary times, they were associated with the 
William Pierce cult." 

"A lot of people were, sir," said Redmond. "If the Christian 
Identity people were our brawn in those days, then the ex-Piercies 
were a hell of a lot of our brain." 

"I know it," admitted Morgan. "Some of our greatest heroes 
and our most brilliant citizens were once associated with the Pierce 
group. I am not suggesting that this would necessarily be any grounds 
for suspicion, but you should be aware of the fact. The Piercies always 
rejected the concept of separatism, and back in those days it wasn't 
the complete irrelevance that it is now." 

"You left one out," Redmond reminded him. "The second 
senior military officer." 

"Yes, so I did," admitted Morgan. "The final survivor of the 
Olympic Flying Column. Special Service Major General William 
Vitale." 

"Big Bill," said Redmond angrily. "So that's why I'm here! 
That's why you sent for me personally. You want me to find out if Big 
Bill Vitale, of all the men on earth, is a traitor! A man you have invited 
into your own home, a man who is a part of our own family as much as 
if he was born among us! With all due respect, sir, damn you!" 

"I don't blame you for being upset, Don, but perhaps you 
understand now why I want this handled in the family, so to speak?" 

"You cannot possibly think any such thing!" snapped Don. 
"No, as a matter of fact I don't. Do you believe that letter is 
legitimate?" asked Morgan, pointing to the glassined document lying 
on his desk. 

"I have no way of knowing whether it is legitimate or not," 
responded Redmond. 

"Nor do I. But we can't ignore it, especially if she really does 
walk across that border crossing on the twenty-second of October. We 
can't just wait here for Trudy Greiner to drop whatever bomb she 
intends to drop on Independence Day. We must have some idea of 



H. A. Covington 

what the hell we are up against, and we have to know beforehand so 
we can figure out how the hell to deal with this!" 

"Yes, sir, I can see that. There is something else. Sir, you also 
realize that if I dig too deeply into Ravenhill and it turns out that our 
official version of those events, shall we say, becomes inoperative, 
then it may also involved undermining or revising the whole Melanie 
Young legend?" demanded Redmond. "The Melanie Young cult is one 
of the bases of our whole social culture, especially for a whole 
generation of young women who have grown up wanting to live up to 
Melanie's legacy while simultaneously cursing Trudy Greiner as the 
ultimate in female evil. The Madonna and the devil bitch. Suppose the 
Madonna isn't really the Madonna and the bitch turns out to be an 
innocent woman whom we have all spent a lifetime unjustly defiling? 
Are you sure we want to start down that path, sir? We don't know 
where it might lead. You were right about icons and legends. If one 
icon turns out to be plaster and not gold, and if one legend turns out 
to be a lie, others might be just as false. This business may be turn out 
to be a loose thread and if we pull on it the whole fabric of our society 
might unravel! If Trudy Greiner comes back with some missing piece 
of evidence or some way to prove that she really didn't betray the 
Column, we got major problems, boss man. Because if she didn't, then 
who the hell did?" 

"I haven't slept since I read that letter," said Morgan quietly. 

"Don, we have to know! As bad as it might be if she can prove 
she's innocent, what if she can't? If Trudy Greiner can't prove what 
she says there, then I am going to have to put a rope around her neck! 
I've killed men and women in the performance of my duty before, 
Don, and so have you. I'll do it again and most likely so will you. But 
never, so far as I know, has it been undeserved. I must be sure! I owe 
that to the Republic, to history. I owe it to her and to those fifty-two 
brothers and sisters who died on that hillside. And yes, I owe it to 
myself!" 



The Hill of the Ravens 



III. 



At about five o'clock that evening Don Redmond arrived back 
at his home on a rolling rural road just south of Tumwater. It was a 
cheery old house set in a copse of Douglas fir, cherry trees and 
fragrant cedar, sporting blue with white trim on the modern 
weatherproofed siding Don had installed when the old oak clapboard 
had finally gotten too moldy to keep on with. He slid his electric 
ground car silently into the garage alongside his wife's methane truck 
and Allan's alcohol-burning motorcycle, which Don kept tuned and 
clean awaiting for his son to come home and space to ride it again. Not 
a single petroleum engine existed anywhere in the Republic any more, 
in any military or civilian vehicle. Every visitor to the Northwest came 
away with one memory above all, the clear blue of the skies and the 
fresh sweetness of the air. The structure was a big one for a typically 
large Northwest family, originally built in the 1920s as a farmhouse. 
Don and Sarah had bought the place free and clear with one of the 
Republic's first Life Grants for newly married couples. In the Republic 
there had never been the mortgages with their crushing interest of the 
kind that had drained the financial lifeblood from generations of 
American homeowners; the traditional household with the 
breadwinning husband and father as the head of the family and the 
wife and mother as the heart had once more become reality in the 
Northwest. Over the years Don had added rooms and refurbished the 



H. A. Covington 

old barn in the back as a play house and rec room in which his kids 
had spent a large amount of their childhood. 

Don got out of the car and closed the garage door. He turned 
and saw a large dark shape approaching. "Hello, Baskerville," he said. 
Baskerville woofed once in greeting. He was one of the larger 
specimens of the GELF K9S, the genetically engineered attack and 
security dogs. Don preferred the black Labrador breed over the 
German shepherd and Doberman models. Super-intelligent for a dog, 
his internal microchip set to respond to voice commands only from 
the Redmond family or from John Morgan, Baskerville was a guardian 
for the family more efficient and deadly than any electronic or alarm 
system. He could sense any intruder and respond with proactive 
ferocity. He helped make it possible for them to live a normal life. 

The United States Office of Northwest Recovery had tried to 
murder Don Redmond on three occasions in the past ten years. Don 
killed two of the Federal assassins in the field. Sarah had killed a third 
when the American got into the house in Don's absence, shooting him 
between the eyes as he attempted to lift the sleeping toddler John 
from his crib, possibly to use as a hostage or human shield as he 
waited for Don to come home. It was after this incident that 
Baskerville had been given to the Redmond family as a puppy. Acting 
on the personal orders of John Corbett Morgan, the Republic's War 
Prevention Bureau had retaliated and successfully returned the favor 
in two cases, killing the ONR case officers who had put out the 
contract on Don. The third was an ONR Assistant Director named Dov 
Horowitz, the man who had sent the gunman into Don's home. 
Horowitz lived in Washington D.C. He always traveled in armored 
vehicles, and he never spent the night in the same place twice. The 
WPB periodically assured Don that Mr. Horowitz was still very 
prominently featured on their Hit Parade, and that he had hopes of 
good news in the fullness of time. Don wasn't worried. The mills of the 
hunters sometimes ground slowly, but they ground exceeding fine. 
The motto over the entrance to the WPB's fortified and top-security 
compound in Lacey read in German: Alles wird abgerechnet. "All 
accounts will be settled." 

The enemy ONR seemed to have gotten the message, and 
things had been quiet for some years now. Morgan himself made it a 
public point of honor never to seek personal vengeance for attacks 
against himself, but trying to murder a member of his family was very 
high on the "not recommended" list. Other than the one apparently 
extemporaneous incident, the Americans had never attempted to 



The Hill of the Ravens 

harm any of Don's family, possibly because they understood that the 
consequences of such an attack would ignite a blood feud with the 
numerous Morgans and Redmonds, the negative consequences of 
which would far outweigh any possible benefits to the United States. 
But that incident had put Don at the top of the list to receive the latest 
generation GELF puppy, and Baskerville was now part of the family. 

"Any problems?" asked Redmond. Baskerville woofed twice for 
no. 

Don went inside the house. In the large and friendly kitchen he 
met his wife Sarah, a tall and graceful woman with dark brown hair 
that was just beginning to go gray. She was wearing an ankle-length 
dress, this one of brown wool, embroidered with Celtic designs having 
to do with her role as a Wiccan priestess. She was fixing supper for the 
clan; Don could smell and hear a pork roast sizzling in the old- 
fashioned electric oven he had built for her. Sarah refused to consider 
a cooking robot or even a microwave, which she said interfered with 
the harmonious vibrations of the home. "Hi, Snoopy," he said, kissing 
her on the cheek. He had started calling her that to tease her when he 
was a twelve year-old paperboy and Sarah was an eleven year-old in 
jeans, with braces on her teeth and two pigtails on either side of her 
head that Don pretended reminded him of the long floppy ears of a 
cartoon character. They had spent long hours together on the back 
porch of the house in Bellevue while her father and his men had 
planned and implemented countless guerrilla attacks and acts of 
sabotage inside. 

Don's elder daughter Cynthia Ellen Redmond was helping her 
mother in the kitchen. "Hi, Dad," she said. The eldest Redmond 
daughter very greatly resembled Sarah in her younger years, the same 
slim strong build and handsome features, but without the young 
Sarah's passion and wildness. Cindy was still wearing her green Labor 
Service coveralls. She had spent the day supervising a crew of younger 
people who were doing their mandatory year of manual work after 
graduating from high school. Today they had been raking leaves and 
doing landscaping in Priest Point Park. Next week they might be 
collecting the city's garbage or repairing an elderly couple's home. A 
few weeks before Cindy and her crew had been in Yakima picking 
apples, and in the spring they would be out in the woods doing 
forestry work, planting seedlings and stocking fisheries. 

The Labor Service was the Republic's response to the age-old 
excuse of capitalism as to why massive Third World immigration was 
needed. "Who does the dirty work?" moaned the old capitalists of the 



H. A. Covington 

United States. "White and even black Americans won't get their hands 
dirty or work up a sweat. We must have all these brown coolies, or 
who will do the heavy sweaty stooping stuff?" In the Republic, 
everybody's children did. That meant everybody. Absolute equality of 
national service was the bedrock on which the system rested. Labor 
Service deferments for young people were even harder to get than 
military deferments for young men. Everybody's kids worked with 
their hands for a year. Even if they were blind and in a wheelchair, a 
job was found for them counting widgets by touch or something of the 
kind. A field foreman's stripes gleamed on the left sleeve of Cindy's 
overall, indicating that she had voluntarily extended her time in the 
NLS beyond the legal one year requirement. She was now twenty years 
old, a quiet and competent young woman. By graduating from high 
school and passing her History and Moral Philosophy course she had 
already earned her C citizenship certificate and the single vote that 
came with it. Like many girls, Cindy had opted to go for her second 
level of citizenship through national service rather than through 
college or through marriage right out of high school. On completion 
their year of Labor Service, boys went right into the military for 
another two years, and they left the army with a two-vote B category 
citizenship. 

Don's youngest daughter Eva was doing her homework on the 
dining room table, a History and Moral Philosophy assignment on the 
life of Commander Rockwell. Eva was fifteen and starting to kick at 
the traces a bit. She wanted to achieve her own citizenship through the 
coveted "cultural asset" status, as an actress. If she passed the H & MP 
course and also the talent evaluation by the Ministry of Culture, she 
would get a C-l certificate as opposed to her sister's present C-2. 

Eva was entering high school on the Arts and Humanities track 
and she was doing well. She really did seem to have the true dramatic 
fire, and she had already appeared in two adolescent bit part roles on 
local television, which made both her parents proud enough to 
explode. Opportunities for actors were more numerous than one 
might think in the Republic, given that one of the primary national 
missions was preserving Western art and drama in the purest form. 
There were not only the Ministries of Culture and Broadcasting and 
the Northwest Film Board, but a number of prestigious private theater 
and movie companies. The Lord Chamberlain's Men in Seattle and 
Portland's Globe Theater Group were deemed to be among the most 
eminent and skillful Shakespearean and Restoration repertory 



The Hill of the Ravens 

companies in existence, attracting talent from all over the rapidly 
diminishing English-speaking-world. Eva intended to try and get her 
own Labor Service assignment as a stagehand and set builder for the 
NBA or one of the private companies. Nor were other canons of the 
European tradition neglected. Eva's drama class was producing 
Edmond Rostand's Cyrano de Berger ac in the original French for 
Thanksgiving Theater Day, with Eva playing the female lead as 
Roxane. Only in the Northwest Republic could the classical works of 
Western drama now be performed from their original texts, without 
later interpolations of multiculturalism and political correctness. In 
the spring they were planning for a field trip to make a video movie of 
Wuthering Heights, to be filmed in eastern Oregon as a viable 
substitute for the Yorkshire moors. Eva was determined to snag the 
role of Cathy, although she had told her father that if the family 
adopted a Lebensborn child before then she would stay home and help 
her mother with the infant. 

Public schooling in the Northwest was superior to anything in 
any American university, and many European ones. The Culture and 
Education Ministries were convinced by the catastrophic American 
precedent of the last century that the devil made work for idle hands, 
and that it was in the interest both of society and of the child to keep 
him out of trouble by making sure that from kindergarten onward, 
until the boys went into the army and the girls went to college or 
marriage, school was a full-time job. The Party took an iron-hard line 
against various degenerate entertainments and pastimes of the kind 
that had wasted whole generations of white youth before the 
revolution. Instead of skateboards, Northwest kids got Shakespeare. 
They had computer games in abundance, but instead of mindless 
destruction of bizarre alien life forms all such games required the 
exercise of young minds to outwit the programming through swift 
analysis, thought, and reaction. Instead of the holographic virtual 
reality games and pornography that rotted the minds of American 
children of all races, Northwest boys and girls got virtual time travel 
that let them see and hear and smell everything from the hiss of the 
clothyard shafts at Agincourt to a day in the life of a pioneer family 
heading west in a Conestoga wagon, circa 1850. High school graduates 
were required among other attainments to speak, read and write 
fluently in four languages: English, Latin, and two others not their 
native tongue. The Latin requirement was not only for the increased 
knowledge it gave the child of modern languages descended from the 
tongue of ancient Rome, but also because the declensions and syntax 



H. A. Covington 

imposed an orderly mental discipline on the child's mind. Latin has no 
equivalent of "Like, whatever, dude." Most Northwest high school 
students chose Spanish for one of their languages, for the very 
practical reason that it was the primary tongue of their national 
enemy and it would prove of use. Eva had impressed the hell out of 
her parents by choosing French and Italian. When she had made her 
choices known, Don had asked his daughter why. 

"French in honor of the one nation who dared to oppose the 
American empire back in the old days," the girl had replied. "Italian 
because I always hear Aunt Tori and Big Bill speaking it, and it's 
beautiful. I want to talk with Tori in Italian." 

Cindy El was prim and attractive, and she promised to grow 
into a handsome and matronly woman, but Eva had the makings of a 
true beauty. The girl was blond and willowy, her hair a shining and 
living sheaf of gold, and her walk was that of a princess who would 
grow to become a queen. When Eva entered a room every male eyeball 
from eight to eighty clicked, and it worried Don. For Cindy there had 
only been one, Mark Conway, one of nature's gentlemen, and neither 
of them had ever given her parents a moment of worry. With Eva, 
chasing every teen-aged boy in Olympia away from the house had 
already become almost a full-time job for him and Sarah both. The 
kids were even willing to brave Baskerville for a moment or two in 
Evie's company. Middle son Matt, aged nineteen, was stationed in 
Twin Falls doing his army service and trying to live down the 
reputation of his famous namesake. He was going to major in political 
science and criminal justice when he got out of the army and he had 
already told his father he wanted to follow him into BOSS after the 
required minimum three years in the Civil Guard as a police officer. 
Somehow it just seemed right that there should always be a cop 
named Matt Redmond in the service of his people. Third son John was 
now aged eight and worshiped his spaceman brother Allan. John's 
room was full of photos, prints and crayon drawings of Allan, the 
Martian landscape and the spaceship Vanguard that took Allan to 
Mars. "Cindy El's getting married!" John breathlessly informed to his 
father as he mounted the stairs to his bedroom. 

"Well, one would hope," agreed Don genially. "I'd like to get 
her off my hands sometime this century." 

"She's getting married to Mark Conway!" yelped John 
excitedly. 

"Yeah, well, I'd admire if you let Cindy and your mother tell me 
all about it, young 'un," said Don. Every now and then a little bit of the 



The Hill of the Ravens 

South still slipped into Don's speech, relics from his uncle and later 
association with John Morgan. Don hung up his coat and his gun in 
the bedroom closet and took off his tie, then put on the smoking jacket 
the girls had given him on his last birthday. On his way back 
downstairs Don poked his head into the sitting room of his aunt, the 
Contessa Stoppaglia. "Hey, Aunt Tori. How was your day?" 

"Fine," said the old lady. She was a tall and elegant woman in 
her seventies, always flawlessly dressed. Tonight she sat by the log fire 
in her hearth wearing a tweed suit. On her lapel was a green, white 
and blue ribbon of the War of Independence identical to Don's. "The 
kids did watercolors and made all kinds of lovely technicolor messes 
on their papers and on themselves, and we all enjoyed ourselves 
immensely." Spry despite her age, Tori was a volunteer kindergarten 
teacher in Tumwater, where she managed a class of twenty little 
hellions with just the right combination of love, skill, and firmness. 
Her class called her Granny, but worshipped her as a god. 

"You coming to the reunion tonight?" asked Don. 

"Oh, I don't know," said Tori. "These shindigs are pretty 
depressing, really. They're all much the same, just like any gathering 
of old folks. A bunch of aging men and a few old biddies like me 
getting quietly or not so quietly spiffled and learning who's passed on, 
who's having prostate surgery and showing off the latest pictures of 
the grandchildren. Along with belting out a few of those magnificent 
bloody songs we stole from the Irish. Then the memories start to 
crowd in, first the good ones, and then a lot of them not so good, and 
by the end of the evening we're all maudlin drunk remembering the 
ones who ought to be there but who never made it. I don't know if I'm 
up to it tonight, Don. In any event, I was always a rather reluctant 
revolutionary." 

Don looked over to a large framed portrait on Tori's 
mantelpiece, over the crackling wood fire. It showed a young woman 
with long honey-colored hair standing beside a darkly handsome man 
like a young Frank Sinatra with a long scar on his cheek. In the 
background was a wide lawn fronting a tall white marble villa in 
Tuscany. The youthful Tori Redmond held a wedding bouquet, and 
her face burned like a proud and radiant brand over the distance of 
more half a century. "Still miss him?" asked Don. 

"Every day," she replied softly. "I think his love made me a 
Sicilian myself, you know. I still speak the dialect like a native, or so 
Bill assures me. He ought to know. He grew up in Castellamare del 
Golfo. When the monsters took Tony from me, I decided I would 



H. A. Covington 

devote the rest of my life to making them pay. I always wondered if 
they understood that? The terrible rage of the widow whose beloved 
man has been taken away forever? The power of the vendetta? Their 
own stupidity in unleashing it on themselves?" 

"Tori, more than any of us, you earned that ribbon," said Don 
quietly. "I really think you should come with us tonight." 

"I miss Mom and Matt as well, but you and Bill and those great 
kids of yours make up for it," continued Tori, as if she had not heard 
him. "I remember the old world I grew up in, Don, and I will always 
thank you and those people at that get-together tonight for making 
this new one for me and the children. But somehow, tonight I don't 
feel like going back there, not even for an evening. We sing about it 
like we were all Irish, but the fact is that it was a very bad time, a time 
of horror and wretchedness and evil. At my age I think I've earned the 
right to be a bit selective about which parts of the past my mind 
wanders back to. Can you make my excuses for me? Tell them my 
lumbago's acting up or something." 

"Sure, Tori," said Don with a laugh. He strolled back 
downstairs into the kitchen and poured himself a bourbon and soda 
from a bottle of Old Log Cabin, product of the state distillery in 
Hayden Lake. Cindy El had gone upstairs to change out of her 
coveralls. "Your Dad called me over to Longview House today," he told 
her. "Another special job." 

"What did he want?" asked Sarah. 

"Wanted to talk about the Andrews case first, like I figured he 
might. Then he surprised me. He told me a ghost story," replied Matt. 

"Eh? He usually saves those for the annual Halloween bonfire," 
said Sarah. 

"This time it's a real one. A ghost from revolutionary times is 
about to rise from the dead, although she may return there very 
quickly." 

"What are you talking about?" asked Sarah. Most men in BOSS 
made it a point never to bring their work home with them. But since 
the first day they had met, there had never been a single secret 
between Don and Sarah except for one, by a kind of unspoken 
consent, which was her mother's death during the revolution. Even 
that wasn't really a secret. It was simply something that they never 
spoke of. In any case Sarah was an Alpha One citizen and a Party 
member with a full security clearance. Don sat down at the kitchen 
table and ran down his morning's conversation with the president. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Oh, that poor woman!" exclaimed Sarah when he had 
finished, shaking her head in horror. "Just think of it, Don! Even if she 
is a traitor, imagine what it must have been like to carry that guilt all 
these years, never able to live among your own people but forced to 
exist in that human cesspool down there. And if she's innocent... " 

"If she's innocent then someone has been thumbing their nose 
at justice for almost a lifetime," replied Don grimly. "Some of those 
survivors are in key positions in the Republic now. If that's the case, 
then I wonder what the hell they've been up to since then?" 

"Don," said Sarah in a worried voice. "What about Bill Vitale?" 

"I know, Snoops. Bill was one of the eight people who survived 
from the Olympic Flying Column. And before you ask, I don't believe 
for one instant that Bill Vitale ever committed anything even remotely 
resembling a dishonorable act." 

"Nor do I," said Sarah. 

"But do you see now why we have to find out, one way or the 
other? If Trudy Greiner really is innocent of treason, or if she is guilty 
and for whatever reason she's decided to go out with one last attempt 
to throw sand in our faces, if she can create any kind of doubt at all, 
then Bill and the others will live the rest of their lives under a 
shadow." 

"Are you going to say anything about this to Aunt Tori?" 
demanded Sarah. 

"Holy Moses, no! If she thought I was investigating Big Bill 
she'd stick a stiletto in my ear!" laughed Don. 

"How are you going to go at it?" asked Sarah. 

"I've already started. I spent this afternoon digging around in 
the records at work, the ones we captured from the Feds when they 
pulled out. They're not complete, though. A lot of the relevant material 
was destroyed before ZOG skedaddled, especially stuff relating to their 
informants. It took us years to dig some of them out of their holes. I'll 
start with the FATPO defector, McBride, and then I'll have to talk to 
the eight survivors of the Olympic Flying Column, of course. But I'm 
blessed if I can see what I could possibly turn up after all these years. 
Actual information is so sparse that even if they're all straight with 
me, it's likely that all they will be able to come up with will be ancient 
memories and half-memories. Criminy, Snoops, we're talking about a 
trail that went cold when I was ten years old! We may have to wait for 
Trudy Greiner to rock up and finally tell us her side of the story, and 
then we hope to God she doesn't have some piece of evidence or proof 



H. A. Covington 

that shatters one of the greatest legends of the War of Independence. 
Even though we've raised a whole new generation and we're working 
on our second, the Republic is still under siege. We're the only nation 
on earth whose very right to exist is not accepted by most of the world. 
We don't need and can't stand a scandal like this! Who knows where it 
would lead?" He sighed. "Never mind, enough about work for the 
evening. Now what's this about Cindy getting married to Mark 
Conway? I mean, it's not unexpected. It's always been on the cards 
since they were in elementary school, but have we finally gotten a 
formal proposal?" She smiled. 

'Yep. We received a registered letter from Pastor Marlon 
Carlisle today," said Sarah, handing him the envelope. 

"I'm flattered the Conways elected to use the most prominent 
Christian Identity minister in the country as the matchmaker." Don 
read the letter out loud. "On behalf of the Conway family and their son 
Mark Isaiah blah blah... a true and honorable affection having grown 
between Mark and your daughter Cynthia Ellen blah blah blah... sure 
looks like a proposal to me," asked Don, glancing over the text. "And 
they're not asking for a dowry. Always a sign of a love match. Okay, 
Snoops, now that it's finally coming down to brass tacks, how do you 
feel about the prospect of Mark as a member of the family?" 

"I think he's a fine young man and a very good catch for our 
daughter. I always have." 

"I agree, one hundred per cent. Does Cindy El think he's a good 
catch?" 

"Oh, yes. You said it yourself, she's been chasing Mark for 
years." 

"But... ?" prodded Don, sensing a small hesitation. 

Sarah frowned slightly and chose her words carefully. "Cindy 
El wants the marriage, but the religion aspect worries me a little bit. 
Cindy has never been all that spiritual in the old ways, not like Eva 
who does all her alignments every day. Cindy's the stolid and down-to- 
earth one among our kids, she always was, and she lives very much in 
this world. We've talked about it and she assures me she won't have 
any problem attending church with Mark or allowing their children to 
be raised as Christians." 

"Yeah, well, at least the Conways are CI and not holy-rolling 
Pentecostals who want to burn you at the stake for that voodoo that 
you do so well. I know that ZOG persecutes them, but I swear that 
sometimes I think that's one group of immigrants the Republic could 



The Hill of the Ravens 

do without. It's really ironic. In the United States the Pentecostals are 
accused of being racists and fascists because they preach against 
interracial marriage and homosexuality to their congregations, but 
when they come here they cause nothing but trouble. They get in 
everybody's face by demanding Bravo citizenship without having 
served in the military. At least once a year I have to bust some group 
of tub-thumpers for sneaking into race and politics disguised as 
religion, especially since they can't seem to shake this stupid obscene 
idea about Jews being God's Chosen People. They're as hare-brained 
as Todd Andrews and his so-called Heroic Vitalist Center." 

"How odd of God to choose the Jews," quipped Sarah. 

"Not news, not odd, the Jews chose God," replied Don with a 
smile. 

"We've news for the Jews: they're going to lose!" giggled Sarah, 
completing the third line. "To think that one used to carry ten years in 
Federal prison!" 

"Yeah, I know. Sometimes I think we overthrew the United 
States government simply for the right to tell jokes. But the Conways 
aren't bigots like the Pentecostals. Your father came to accept your 
own adoption of the Craft," pointed out Don. "Nor do I mind having 
Christians in the family as long as they're sane and decent people. 
Why shouldn't it work in reverse?" 

"Dad is an old fashioned hoot-'n'-holler Baptist, not Christian 
Identity," said Sarah. "Insofar as he has any religion at all, which isn't 
very far. The Aryan race is his real religion, always has been. He thinks 
my Craft is just a silly little girl phase I never grew out of. It doesn't 
offend him because he doesn't take it seriously. Yes, I know, the 
Conways are good folks and they think the world of Cindy, but I'm 
concerned about how the rest of the CI community here will treat her 
when they learn she was brought up in the Old Ways. It seems to be 
getting worse every year, this pointless, stupid bickering over religion. 
Why can't we just lay it aside? Like we don't have problems enough 
with those American maniacs constantly scheming to reconquer us 
and enslave us again?" 

"It seems to be the peculiar curse of our race," sighed Don. 

"I know it was during the early days of the Movement," 
recalled Sarah. "Commander Rockwell and the Old Man tore their hair 
out trying to get what few people we had to see sense on the issue and 
not fight over it." 

"It was bad," agreed Don. "It's hard to believe that even at the 
height of ZOG's power, there were racially aware white people who 



H. A. Covington 

hated other white people so badly that they would rather ZOG 
continued to rule than the people they hated have any part in the 
solution. That period of history was never entirely sane, and in some 
respects we were just as nutty. Even before ZOG, religion was our 
curse. We spent many centuries merrily butchering one another by the 
millions over the Great Jumping Jesus, yea or nay or how many angels 
can dance on the head of a pin. No matter how imminent the 
existential threat from the Untermenschen, there is always a white 
man somewhere that we hate worse. It's like we need a white 
opponent to fight against, as if it fills some deep psychological need. 
It's almost as if a non-white enemy just doesn't fill the bill in some 
weird corner of our soul. I always thought that Commander Rockwell 
had the best way of dealing with it, which is just not deal with it. The 
Constitution of the Republic gives every man and woman the right to 
freedom of religion, freedom to practice their faith and to raise their 
children in that faith, with the critical proviso that they do not attempt 
to disguise political activity or ideology wrapped in a religious cloak. 
That's a lesson we learned the hard way back in the twentieth century, 
when the established Christian churches then were almost totally 
corrupted with Zionism and sexual perversion. In the States they still 
are. We rightly guard ourselves against that particular Trojan horse, 
but beyond that we should all worship God or the gods in our own way 
and just shut the hell up about it. Sorry, I know I'm rambling, but the 
whole situation just plain ticks me off." 

"Listening to one's husband ramble comes with a wife's job 
description," she said with a quick kiss. 

"Look, Tim and Stephanie Conway are both B-category 
citizens. They've got a prosperous contracting business building 
immigrant housing for new settlers, good quality homes and 
apartments. We've known them for years, and I've never seen a sign of 
bigotry against any other white person or group out of them. They 
know you're Wicca and I'm NS and if it's ever bothered them, I've 
never detected it. And I'm a detective, remember? Mark's a fine and 
steady boy. He's coming out of the army in January and going to work 
for his dad part time, and the rest of that time he's going to work on a 
civil engineering degree from Oregon State. That would mean that he 
and Cindy would have to move down to Portland, but hey, it happens. 
They grow up, Snoops. It's the right point in both their lives for him 
and Cindy both to start a family, and I've got no problem with it if 
Cindy doesn't." Don grinned at his wife. "You just don't want to give 
Cindy the Little Talk," he said with a chuckle. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"I already did, last year," Sarah reminded him. "Just in case 
she and Mark... well, never mind, we both know that wouldn't have 
happened, Mark is almost like a medieval knight with his lady when 
he's with Cindy, but still I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. 
Thank the gods that we now live in a society where it was mine to do. I 
remember my sex education classes starting in second grade, before 
the revolution. Some of them were so filthy I still can't believe anyone 
could teach such things to children." 

"I was home-schooled by my aunt and uncle for that very 
reason. This is now. What did you think of it then?" asked Don 
curiously. 

"I was seven years old, and you have to remember most of 
what we were taught wasn't normal sex. I thought it was all very silly 
and gross, and it convinced me that grownups were mostly insane. 
Why on earth would they want to do nasty stuff like that, otherwise? 
One day I went home and told Dad about what we were doing in class. 
The day after that Dad came to school and beat the faggot sex 
education teacher to a bloody pulp. That was his first arrest for 
hatecrime. He broke out of King County jail and from then on it was... 
well, you know what it was like. But I never went back to that school." 

Cindy came back into the kitchen wearing a skirt and sweater 
and without asking piled steaming potatoes au gratin into a large bowl 
for the dinner table. "Hi, princess," said Don to his daughter. "Look, 
honey, got a moment? Can you step into the study? I'd like to talk to 
you. I reckon you know what about." 

"Sure, Dad," said the girl. "Been upstairs talking with Aunt 
Tori?" 

"Yes. She wants me to tell the reunion tonight that her 
lumbago's acting up, which is horse hockey. She'll outlive us all." They 
went into Don's den and sat down on the sofa together. "No bull now, 
Cindy. Mark Conway has formally asked our family for permission to 
marry you. I want to know how you feel about it." 

"Actually, I was the one who asked him to marry me," said 
Cindy with a smile. "Once when we were eight years old. Then again, 
seriously, a year ago, before he went into the army. I haven't changed 
my mind." 

"That's all I need to hear, princess. I'll send my formal 
acceptance to Pastor Carlisle tomorrow. I'll also call Mark at his unit 
up on the Yukon border and I'll tell him the good news myself." He 
leaned over and kissed her. "May the both of you know nothing but joy 
and fulfillment, all of your lives. Now, in view of your coming change 



H. A. Covington 

of situation, I want you to be honest with me about everything. How 
can I help?" Don expected a calm and serious assessment of the young 
couple's financial and material needs prior to their each receiving 
their Life Grants from the state. Those needs he was fully prepared to 
fulfill with all the resources at his command, including his father-in- 
law's as well, for he knew he could speak for John Corbett on this. 
After all, this was Cindy, the practical and unsentimental one. It was 
her way. 

Cindy El rarely surprised him, but this time she managed it. 
"Dad, what was the old country like?" 

"Huh?" asked Don in surprise. "Cindy, why on earth would you 
ask me that now?" 

"I was just thinking about Mark and me today," she told him. 
"I was wondering what our children will be like, what kind of world 
they will grow up in, wondering if my sons will have to fight another 
war to keep our country alive. Then I started wondering what it would 
have been like if you had stayed behind, what kind of life they would 
have had. Or even if they would be at all, or I would have been born at 
all. That, and you and Mom going to the reunion tonight reminded me 
how much we owe you. But I just got curious. All around me every day 
I meet and speak with new people, new settlers, and they all know 
where they came from. I guess like all us woodchucks who were born 
here I sometimes feel there's something missing. I hear people 
speaking in German and Russian and Afrikaans, or in English with 
accents from England and Ireland and New Zealand and 
Massachusetts. It's like they have something I don't, in a way. So I 
wonder. What was our own land like, the land we lived in before we 
Came Home?" 

"Honey, I was only six years old when we left North Carolina. I 
have lived all my life since then here in the Homeland. Never wanted 
to be anywhere else." 

"But surely you must remember something?" pressed Cindy. "I hear a 
little of it in your voice sometimes, a passing reference to this or that." 

"That's mostly from growing up around Uncle Matt and from 
your grandfather," pointed out Don. "I picked up some of their speech 
patterns second hand. I'm not really a Carolinian." 

"I know. I wish I had known Uncle Matt." 

"So do I, princess. Matt and Heather both. You missed 
something there." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"It's almost like North Carolina is a ghost that follows us 
everywhere. Someone once called us a haunted people. Haunted by 
our past, haunted by the many lands we came from. I want to know 
our family ghosts, Dad, so I can tell my own children about them 
someday. Our own land, the land long ago... what was it like? Can you 
tell me anything?" 

"Well, yeah, I remember a little. I dream about it sometimes," 
said Redmond slowly. "Just hazy images mostly, the kind a person of 
my age retains from their early childhood. Not much, and what there 
is doesn't hang together very coherently. There are some bad 
memories, like gangs of ugly black children with big bubble lips and 
nappy frizzy heads chasing me and beating me with sticks, throwing 
rocks at me if I came out of my yard, that kind of thing. But there are 
good memories as well. Sometimes I dream about the summer, the 
muggy burning heat of a kind that we never get here, or at least we 
never get here on the South Sound. I dream about air conditioners 
rumbling in windows, dripping water from the condensation. I 
remember green and leafy trees, kind of the same as we have here, but 
different as well. The trees were smaller than here but with bigger 
leaves, and the Carolina pines are different from our firs and cedars. I 
know that because I've seen photos, but I remember it too. At least, I 
think I do. Taller, straighter, and in my mind I see pine cones and 
brown pine needles like a carpet on the ground everywhere. Soft dirt, 
softer than here, darker. And sometimes sand. I remember going to a 
place once that my parents called Cliffs of the Neuse, which is a river 
in Carolina. I remember there were big tall pine trees growing up 
there out of hard white sand. I remember looking down on the water 
and it was kind of muddy greenish brown, not like the blue of the 
Sound here. I remember going to places with old cannons, Fort Fisher 
and Bentonville. They were Civil War battlefields where Southern 
soldiers fought against the United States, very long ago in the first 
time when our people revolted against the Americans. Later ZOG had 
all those sites plowed under and all the relics were destroyed, and it 
became against the law even to speak of that time or to honor any of 
our ancestors who fought for the Confederacy. Display of any 
Confederate flag or insignia still carries ten years' Federal prison time 
now, if I recall correctly. 

"But mostly I remember autumn in Carolina. The trees blazing 
with gold and red and brown, the air clear and chill. I remember a 
Halloween or two, Jack o 'Lanterns on porches and beautiful golden 
leaves on the ground. You want to know what I most recall about the 



H. A. Covington 

old country, honey? I remember the Halloweens. My brother and my 
sister and I used to go trick or treating. My Uncle Matt took us all, 
with his gun worn outside on his hip. He was a North Carolina state 
cop then, and he was one of the few white men who were still allowed 
to carry a weapon after the Schumer Act. He went with us so none of 
the black kids messed with us or stole our candy. Yeah, I'd have to say 
it was Halloween I remember best. There was just something different 
in the air than here, maybe because we were closer to the real Old 
Country, the Europe that our ancestors came from in those tiny 
wooden ships. My Christmases? Those are all here, Cindy El and 
thanks to Matt and Heather they were all good ones. I guess that's the 
best way I can explain it. Halloween means the old country to me, but 
Christmas means the Homeland. I hope that makes some kind of 
sense to you." 

"And your father and your mother? My grandparents?" asked 
Cindy. 

"I actually can't remember that much about them, which I 
suppose is something I ought to feel badly about, but in my mind they 
are always kind of overshadowed by images of Matt and Heather. I 
wasn't with them when they were killed, thank God," said Don. "It 
happened in the state capital, Raleigh, what they called a carjacking in 
those days. A Mexican gang specialized in stealing late model cars and 
shipping them to South America. Rather than take the time to break in 
and maybe damage the merchandise they simply waited for a nice car 
driven by white people to pull up to a stoplight or park, then dragged 
them out, killed them, and drove off with the car. It happened all the 
time in those days. I remember my Uncle Matt and my Aunt Heather 
coming to our house and asking us, my brother and sister and me, if 
we'd like to go on a long trip. I didn't know it, but they were actually 
taking us away for good, one step ahead of the Child Protective 
Services. This was before It Takes A Village, but the government was 
already using the law to kidnap white children and give them to 
liberals and... well, to other kinds of people. The courts had declared 
Matt and Heather to be unfit guardians because of Mart's so-called 
history of anti-government activities, which involved his job as a state 
police officer. He had this funny idea that the law applied to Federals 
as well, and back in the old days he rained on a number of 
Washington's parades, so I understand. Plus there was that business 
with Bill Vitale. They never forgave him for that, especially Hillary. 
The Old Man wrote a book about it, which you may have read. 
Anyway, we kids were put on a train to Seattle with Aunt Heather. We 



The Hill of the Ravens 

couldn't fly because we had to travel under false names. I do 
remember that long, long trip. I remember changing trains in this big 
huge station in Chicago where I ate a messy hot dog while sitting on a 
hard bench and slopped chili all over my shirt and pants, while about 
a hundred radios all around seemed to be shrieking out Mexican salsa 
music. I remember seeing the Rockies coming up ahead in the train's 
observation car, capped with snow, and my first sight of blue lakes in 
Montana. Heather took us to her uncle, Oscar Lindstrom, and he hid 
us in his cabin out near Yelm for a year or so until Matt and Heather 
were able to Come Home themselves." 

"Will we ever be able to go back?" asked Cindy softly. 

"Why? Do you want to go back?" asked Don in surprise. "I 
mean, it's not a bad thing if you do. A lot of people here believe they 
will go back some day, to the lands of their birth. Everywhere from 
Germany to Milwaukee to South Africa. I think all of us want to go 
back, at least a little." 

"Mmm, not for good, I don't think. I was born here. My home 
is the Northwest and it always will be. But it just makes me mad that 
the Americans won't give us entry visas, won't even let us go back to 
visit. Like we're contaminated or something." 

"To them, we are contaminated," said her father. "We are 
contaminated with two things they fear more than anything. Courage 
and racial pride. They spent seventy years stamping courage and pride 
out of our people, and yet despite it all here we are in the Northwest, 
springing back up again like weeds." 

"I'd just like to see Carolina someday," she said wistfully. 
"Someday, yes, I think we'll be able to go back," said Don. "Not in my 
lifetime, but maybe in yours. I'd say pretty certainly that your children 
will be able to go back someday if they want. Honey, you know that 
the Homeland was never intended to be a prison for us. It's a lifeboat, 
a place of refuge. One day the men and women of our race will grow 
strong and brave again, and more importantly, we will grow many. 
There will be enough of us so that we can kick down the walls they've 
built around us and take it all back, the America and the Canada that 
our forefathers made. Speaking of those children you mentioned... 
Cindy, before God, are you sure you want Mark Conway to be their 
father? Honey, I won't pressure you or try to force you. When all is 
said and done, this is your decision." 

"Yes, Dad. I've known Mark was the one since I was a child, 
Dad, and Mark knew the same about me. Just like you knew Mom was 
the one, and she told me she knew you. I just had it a lot easier than 



H. A. Covington 

you did. You two had to meet and recognize one another in a bad time 
of fear and violence and sickness. I didn't have to go through that. You 
and Mom and Papa John and Aunt Tori made a world where it was 
possible for Mark and me to come together without fear or guilt or 
confusion, where young white people aren't driven half insane by 
what's happening around them. I know enough history to understand 
that." 

"Don't ever forget it, Cindy El. Because if you do, you and your 
children will be forced to repeat it. Now let's get in to supper before 
the smell of that crackling pork drives me nuts." 

After dinner, while his wife was dressing for the reunion, Don 
went into the library and pulled out his comphone. He called his old 
friend Charlie Randall. When Randall's mug appeared on the screen it 
turned out to be a kindly, grandfatherly face, weatherbeaten with a 
shock of gray hair. It was definitely not the face one would expect of 
one of the Republic's foremost intelligence operatives and assassins, 
with a record of happy homicide going back to the War of 
Independence. 

"G'day, mate!" said Randall, his speech purest Brisbane. "Long 
time no jabber. Been meaning to give you a bell and offer my Congrats 
on catching the bloody Bill Vitale clone and busting those nutters who 
wanted to waste Pastor Briggs." 

"Hey, cobber," said Don. "Thanks, but it's all in a day's work. It 
could be worse. I could be mowing lawns for the Labor Service. Look, 
Charlie, something's come up. I need to have a word with you 
regarding a new case I'm working on. It's nothing of immediate 
urgency or any imminent threat to state security, just some 
background on the old days. You going to be at the Association shindig 
tonight?" 

"Be there with bells on," agreed Randall. "Wouldn't want to 
miss a chance to dance with that lovely wife of yours." 

"Long as I get a dance with Linda. Let's try to make some time 
for a jaw-jack, then." 



At a little past eight o'clock, Don and Sarah arrived at the 
downtown Olympia Hilton for the annual social of the Old NVA 
Association. The Redmonds always made it a point to show up for the 
annual reunions. They were a renowned couple since between them 



The Hill of the Ravens 

both, they were the youngest veterans who were entitled to wear the 
War of Independence ribbon. As they walked in, almost as if by 
arrangement, the loudspeakers struck up Sir William Walton's Crown 
Imperial March. The walls were festooned with Tricolor flags and 
long green, white and blue ribbons. Over the great banquet room, 
crowded with people and Labor Service waiters, heavy with the smell 
of good food and tobacco smoke, hung a heavy silk banner of blue, 
lettered in white. It was the one that the Western Washington chapter 
of the Old NVA Association hung out at every one of their social and 
political functions. On the banner was emblazoned the immortal 
passage from William Shakespeare's Henry the Fifth: 

This day is call'd the feast ofCrispian. 

He that outlives this day and comes safe home 

Will stand a-tip-toe when this day is named 

And rouse him at the name ofCrispian. 

He that shall live this day and see old age, 

Will yearly on this day feast his neighbours, 

And say, Tomorrow is St. Crispian. 

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, 

And say, These wounds I had on Crispin's day. 

Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot, 

But he'lll remember with advantages 

What feats he did that day, Then shall our names. 

Familiar in his mouth as household words, 

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, 

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, 

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. 

This story shall the good man teach his son; 

And Crispin Crispian shall ne 'er go by, 

From this day to the ending of the world, 

But we in it shall be remember'd; 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; 

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me 

Shall be my brother. Be he ne 'er so vile, 



H. A. Covington 

This day shall gentle his condition. 

And gentlemen in England now a-bed 

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, 

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks 

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day! 

There was a scattering of applause as the Redmonds entered 
the room and were recognized. "Hey, Don!" came the chorus of 
greetings from a dozen people at the bar. "Hey Sarah! Lookin' good, 
Sarah! How's the Carolina Kid?" 

"Getting old, boys," replied Don merrily. "Almost as old as 
some of you relics! This time next year we'll all have creaking joints!" 

"Hey, you young whippersnapper, I might remind you that this 
particular old relic done out-shot your ass by thirty points on the 
police range last August!" yelled the retired head of the Republic's 
steel production corporation, who was also the head of the NAR's state 
rifle team. Without asking he thrust a huge stone tankard of Bavarian 
pattern into Don's hand, brimming with frothing ale from the Red 
Hook brewery. Lemuel Harris had been born in Alabama. He had 
come to the Northwest as a fugitive from American justice for the 
crime of defending his life on a dark night in Mobile against a crazed 
drug addict. His sentence had been seven years state time for the 
killing itself and thirty years Federal without parole for the racist 
crime of being a man with a white skin who raised his hand against a 
man with a black skin. Harris broke out of a prison bus and walked 
three thousand miles, mostly at night, until he reached the Homeland, 
eating out of dumpsters and killing four police officers along the way 
who tried to apprehend him. Some years before the business 
correspondent of the Times of London had interviewed him and asked 
him about that trek. Harris replied, "I killed when I had to, but I never 
stole a single dime or so much as a mouthful of food from anyone 
along the way." 

"Might another of us superannuated old relics impose on your 
lovely lady for the first dance after dinner?" asked another elderly 
gentleman, with a courtly bow towards Sarah. The left sleeve of his 
flawless black evening dress suit was empty, pinned back against his 
side. By old custom for these functions he had left his perfectly 
functioning prosthetic limb at home this evening, for tonight the 
wounds of the past were acknowledged and displayed for the world to 



The Hill of the Ravens 

see. Zack McAllister's arm had been blown off during the Kennewick 
Flying Column's attack on the fortified FATPO barracks in Yakima, 
when he had picked up a grenade and tried to throw it back at the 
Federals. It exploded in his hand. A nineteen year-old student 
paramedic had amputated and cauterized the bleeding stump, without 
anesthetic, in the back of a van while the FATPO patrols swarmed 
outside. A single outcry would have given away their position. The 
wounded man had never uttered a sound. The paramedic was now the 
mayor of Coos Bay, Oregon and was no doubt attending his own NVA 
reunion this evening. 

"You're going to have to fight Charlie Randall for her, Zack. 
You realize, of course, that this is what you get for being the youngest 
woman in the room," chuckled Don to Sarah. "As well as the most 
beautiful." He leaned over and kissed his wife quickly and 
affectionately. Someone overheard him. 

"Hey, now, Sarah's a looker, that I'll grant you, but she's got 
some competition! Reckon I can still kick up my heels a bit with some 
of these young studs!" cackled Cassie Kowalski, a lean and 
weatherbeaten old crone in a chic blue velvet brocade evening gown. 

Her once red hair was now dyed blue, a cigarette dangled from 
her lips, and her liver-spotted knuckles as they curled around the 
tumbler of straight whiskey were swollen with arthritis. It was hard to 
believe that in the time of struggle she had been a statuesque hooker 
so stunning that her code name had been "Lorelei", and that her 
beauty had lured over a dozen Federal bureaucrats, politicians, and 
senior media executives to their deaths. She once took out a United 
States Senator herself, with an icepick through his left ear. 

Over three hundred elderly men thronged the room, along 
with a few matronly and gray-haired women and a small army of 
younger relatives. Across the banquet hall Don saw a dignified old 
couple in evening dress, Ed and Brittany McCanless, two survivors of 
the Olympic Flying Column that he would have to interview. He raised 
his stein to them in greeting. Before he could go over and speak to 
them he was intercepted. "Hi, Don, Sarah! Have you met my eldest 
grandson Jeff?" said an old woman whom Don vaguely knew but 
whose name for the moment escaped him. She glowed with the pride 
of a long lifetime as she introduced a bashful young giant in full SS 
dress black, the SWASTIKA armband gleaming crimson white and 
black on his left bicep. "He just graduated from Sandpoint in June and 
he's already gotten his first lieutenant's bars!" the old woman crowed. 



H. A. Covington 

"Jeff, this is Colonel Donald Redmond from BOSS. Redmond, 
got it? As in Matt Redmond?" 

"It's an honor to meet you, sir!" shouted the young soldier, 
bracing to stiff attention, in an obvious agony of social discomfort at 
meeting the most legendary name in the Republic after the Old Man 
himself. 

"Hey, at ease tonight, troop!" laughed Redmond, slapping him 
on the shoulder. "These gigs are completely informal and eclectic, I 
promise you. Now go get drunk like we all came here for. That's an 
order, troop!" 

"Yes sir! I will get drunk, sir! Thank you sir!" shouted the 
young SS man. 

"And make sure your grandmother gets drunk as well," 
Redmond admonished him. "I want her completely pistus newtus 
before the night is over." 

"Yes sir!" 

Here was a retired dentist who had printed over fifty million 
dollars in counterfeit U. S. currency and four million in postage 
stamps on an underground printing press in his basement. There was 
a senior official of the Northwest Reserve Bank who had once huddled 
in the bottom of a porta-potty for eight hours, and then given a United 
States Marine Corps general a .44-caliber enema. He was talking to an 
assistant Minister of Finance and also to Cindy's ultimate boss, the 
head of the Republic's Labor Service. The assistant Minister of 
Finance had begun his fiscal career when he led an NVA team that 
kidnapped the daughter of Seattle's chief rabbi and successfully 
collected a two million dollar ransom, afterwards returning her 
unharmed and unviolated, as he had given his word would be done if 
the ransom was paid. He had shot one of his own men in the kneecap 
who had attempted to kill the Jewish girl anyway after the ransom was 
paid. The Volunteer whom the assistant Minister had shot had 
become an SS officer who later died a hero at Chilliwack while earning 
his third Iron Cross. They had never been reconciled, and that was the 
assistant Minister's deepest regret in life, a failure that haunted him 
through sleepless nights. Cindy's boss, the Minister of Labor, had been 
brought into an FBI interrogation center with three bullets in his 
body, and with his wounds yet bleeding he had still managed to 
strangle his first interrogator with his bare hands. Over there in 
another corner was a Luftwaffe general who presently commanded a 
space shuttle. In the battle of Portland he had been a pilot who made 



The Hill of the Ravens 

over fifty low-level bombing runs dropping homemade explosives onto 
the Federal positions from whatever small aircraft he could get to fly, 
in several cases microlights of canvas and aluminum tubing, and in 
another a ancient Boeing 737 he and his crew converted to a bomber. 
Each time he had returned to his airstrip, his plane shredded with 
bullets. He had once landed a stolen helicopter in the main yard at the 
Florence Federal Prison in Colorado to extract five NVA prisoners. 

At the far end of the hall sat an elderly automobile mechanic, 
eating from a plate of fried chicken and potato salad and guzzling 
from a tall tumbler. Kenneth McGrath had long ago blocked out the 
memory of the horror, the years in prison, the beatings and electric 
shock to his genitals. All he knew was that this was an occasion once a 
year when he got free food and top-notch hootch. Ken had never been 
a Party member and he was never into all that political shit. He never 
understood why these people had given him an Iron Cross for that one 
particular incident. Old Kenny wore it on these nights because he 
figured it was kind of expected of him, in exchange for the food and 
the booze, but privately he thought it was a bit silly. He wasn't even 
German. Some white people were in trouble with some niggers and he 
had helped them. Seemed like the thing to do at the time. So what? 
The whole episode was exaggerated. Everybody knew that niggers 
were never anywhere near as tough as they were cracked up to be, and 
they'd run like scalded dogs from any white man who stood up them. 
Even niggers with badges. Whoop-de-doo. And the shooting bit was 
highly exaggerated as well. His dad had made better shots hunting 
buck and moose lots of times. Wasn't like he'd done anything special. 
Hey, if these people wanted to give him free food and liquor every, 
year because of some stupid shit that happened when he was twenty- 
three years old, who was he to argue? Politics weren't important to 
Ken McGrath. Alcohol-burning V-8 engines and methane turbine 
generators were important. Start up a good engine and you saw God's 
plan for the universe. 

At one table sat a fifth-generation Washington farmer who 
every year grew acres of wheat and sorghum over the graves of six FBI 
agents he and his team had killed in a night ambush and buried on his 
ancestral land. At another sat a man who made cuckoo clocks in his 
garage, their cunning and accurate mechanisms based on the bomb 
timing devices he had made in his youth. There was a woman with 
sixteen grandchildren knocking back Singapore Slings, who had been 
a young police despatcher in Seattle and kept the NVA apprised of 
every move the cops made. Beside her was her husband, whose lumpy 



H. A. Covington 

fingers were missing their fingernails. The nails had been torn out and 
the cuticles soldered in an FBI torture chamber when he refused to 
inform on his wife. Down the bar was little old Eddie Cartrett, a 
nonentity who now held the official position of town drunk in Shelton, 
Washington. Oddly enough, Eddie was almost the only one drinking 
ginger ale. On this one night of all nights, he stayed sober and served 
as designated driver for a busload of his former comrades in arms. It 
was a tradition within his unit, one he honored as an almost religious 
obligation. He had also stayed sober, admittedly with some effort, on 
the long ago night when he drove a rental truck full of explosives up to 
the front gate of the Federal Detention Facility in Auburn and 
detonated it. Eddie made it away, although just barely. Over two 
hundred NVA prisoners had also made it out of the concentration 
camp, and the sudden return infusion of so many hardened guerrillas 
had given the embattled NVA a new lease on life. 

The evening's big attraction was a display along one of the 
walls of the banquet room, a series of big blown-up U. S. government 
posters from the revolution, of the kind that had once adorned every 
wall and hoarding in the Northwest states. "WANTED BY THE 
DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY FOR ACTS OF 
DOMESTIC TERRORISM!" shrieked the posters. Rewards Up To One 
Million Dollars For The Apprehension Of These Individuals!" Below 
the heavy black type on each placard were rows of sixteen or twenty 
photographs of NVA men and women, mostly old mug shots, but a few 
fuzzy FBI surveillance photos as well. Little groups of guests were 
gathered before the posters, chuckling and pointing out old friends 
and comrades to their companions, in some cases pointing out their 
own mug shots. 

"You looked like Frankenstein with that shaven head!" one 
elderly woman chided her husband merrily. 

"I was a monster, all right," returned the man quietly. "You 
wouldn't have wanted to know me in those days, Liz. Trust me. You 
wouldn't have." 

"There you go, that's Jerry Wallace!" said another old man, 
pointing to a picture. "He always used to call himself the original Jerry 
Reb. Died last year, brain tumor. That's Willis McCoy. He's retired 
and living down in Astoria now. He said he'd try to make it tonight if 
he could get his daughter to drive him up here. Hope they come. Willis 
is a boring old fart, but that daughter of his is still mighty easy on the 
eyeballs for a gal of fifty. That's Lee Donner. He was killed in the street 



The Hill of the Ravens 

fighting when we moved into Tacoma, during the assault on the 
Federal building. I was there." 

"That's Brigadier Jimmy Wilson," said another codger, lean 
and unshaven, the first drunk of the evening, his suit hanging on him 
like a scarecrow's rags. "Hot damn, I remember Jimmy! I was in his 
brigade for a while before me and Charlie Randall shot that TV fag 
from Channel Five. Jimmy sent us on that one personal. The fag had 
been talking some real shit on the air but not no more after me and 
Charlie looked him up. Charlie had a forty-five Peacemaker and that 
bugger boy's fucking head busted open like a watermelon! Candy- ass 
fudge-packer son of a bitch! Charlie stuck it right in his mouth and 
said 'Suck on this, faggot!' then pop goes the weasel! Charlie and me 
had to go on the run and the Party sent me over to Number Two Boise 
on an E & E. Thass escape and evasion." 

"Yeah, like none of us remember what E & E was, Kev?" 
muttered another surly old man who was listening, his accent still of 
the Mississippi delta after all these years. 

"Jimmy won the first Iron Cross the Republic ever issued," old 
Kev rambled on, oblivious. "Brought down two Apaches outside 
Wenatchee, with nothing but a bolt-action rifle. It was a post- 
humorous award. Fattie murdered him in prison the very day before 
we took it over. He used to fart a lot. Kept eating them damned refried 
burritos. I useta ask him, 'Jimmy, what kind of white man eats 
Messican food?' and he just useta say 'Messican shit, I just like 
burritos, so does that make me some kind of goddamned race traitor?' 
They kilt him in prison. The very day before we came in. Fattie 
motherfucker bastards. I found Jimmy in his cell in the Pullman 
camp, where they'd left him after they ran away. They shot him about 
twenny times, shot him in the balls, a couple in the gut so they could 
watch him die slow, fuck Longview, Longview said they wasn't 
supposed to murder our people no more, but they did it any way... 
goddamned fucking American motherfucking American bastards. We 
should've kept on fighting! Kept on until we conquered Washington 
DC and Jew York and killed them all! We should have tuck all our 
country back, tuck all Amurrica back, it was all of it ours, our people 
made Amurrica, we shoulda took it all back when we had the 
chance..." The old man began to weep. A young man with him, 
possibly a grandson, led him away. 

Like all nations, the Republic had developed its own ruling 
elite, for such is the nature of human society. But on this one night all 
were comrades once again, for every man and more than a few of the 



H. A. Covington 

elderly and middle-aged women wore the green, white and blue 
ribbon on their lapel. That experience gentled their conditions indeed. 
All of them had been there on St. Crispin's Day. On many St. Crispin's 
days during the War of Independence, when the impossible had 
suddenly become not only possible, but inevitable. The time when 
white men and women rose up in arms against the Beast, the Federal 
government of the United States, fought it, and defeated it. These were 
the aging, fading ghosts of that incredible time, the ones who had 
done what no one had ever believed could be done. The time to which 
Don Redmond was now compelled by duty to return. 

Don stopped before one of the wanted posters. "Look, there's 
John Corbett!" he said, pointing out the old police mug shot of Sarah's 
father to her, possibly even the one taken after he had been arrested 
for pulverizing her second grade sex education teacher. In the photo 
Morgan's mighty beard was black as the Harlan County coal instead of 
its present patriarchal white. The powerful burning blue eyes sizzled 
out of the photo, searing the soul of the viewer. Then as now, one 
could imagine him as a Biblical prophet on a hilltop calling down 
divine retribution on a sinful nation, which in a sense he had indeed 
done. 

"That was back in his Million Dollar Man days." Morgan had 
been the second NVA commander to reach the coveted million-dollar 
reward status. Commandant Tom Murdock had been the first. 

"I remember him like that," said Sarah softly, gripping her 
husband's arm. 

"So do I," whispered back Don. "That was how I first saw 
him." 

"Yes," said Sarah. "I can see him like that in my mind's eye, 
like it was yesterday. That is how he will always be in my heart, in my 
mind. Never an old man, but John Corbett By God Morgan! Even as a 
child I could see that his very name struck terror into all of the people 
around me, at least the others, those who were not of the Party. And 
so it should have done. Tall and overwhelming, unbelievably strong 
and powerful, the muscles of his chest and his arms nearly splitting 
his t-shirt. That was Dad. The Green Man of the Wood, the God 
personified, just as my mother was the Goddess. There was hate and 
love in him that awed me, little girl though I was, because I sensed 
that it was something magical, something primal. Love for me and my 
mother, and terrible hate against those who would hurt us. When I 
was little I was always so afraid for my father when he was out in the 
mountains, knowing that the whole world was trying to destroy him, 



The Hill of the Ravens 

to take him from me. But somehow I always felt he was there with me, 
watching over me. I feel it still. Now he watches over us all." 

There was another face on one of the posters, a thickset red- 
haired man with a flat face and cold green eyes like ice. Everyone saw 
the mug shot on the poster. No one commented on it, but it gave Don 
pause. "Hmmm," said Don, casting a careful eye over the gathering. 

"What?" asked Sarah. 

"I don't see any Hayden Lake Flying Column men here," said 
Don. "There are at least five I know of, here in town and in Tacoma, 
who have just as much right to be here as the rest of us. Then there's 
Admiral David Leach. He's not here either. I wonder if Oglevy's people 
are having their own reunion? As usual?" 

"They're probably in a trailer park wherever the local meth lab 
is," said Sarah dryly. "I know it's legal now for the few who still feel the 
need, but I hear that little subculture of the Republic's population still 
likes the traditional home brew." 

"Now, now, Snoops, racial unity and all that," chided Don. 
"I'm sorry, Don, but those guys scared me back then and they scare 
me even today," admitted Sarah. "I know more than most that the 
Aryan race is capable of the most extreme violence of all the many 
human species, however we seemed to lose the knack for a few 
generations back. But when it gets real and up close I still freeze. I'm 
always afraid that Eva will bring home some boy whose father or 
grandfather rode with Oglevy. She'd be attracted to that kind. The 
strength and power, the rage and violence that so fascinates women." 

"Oglevy mostly recruited from the native Northwesters. That 
was one of the reasons he was so valuable to the revolution. We called 
them woodchucks. Back in the South they used to be called buckra 
men," said Don soberly. "The lean, mean poor whites who rode the 
slave patrols at night and kept racial order. Nowadays those who were 
born here call themselves woodchucks with pride, Cindy did tonight, 
but it used to be a derogatory and contemptuous term, I'm sorry to 
say. Oglevy redeemed that term. He was born in this land and he 
brought to his side those who were born here, and that was why he 
was so useful to us and so terrifying to ZOG. They scared ZOG then, 
and their descendants scare ZOG even today," said Don soberly. "I 
wish we didn't still need men like that, Snoops. Maybe one day we 
won't. But until the world changes and accepts the right of our people 
and our nation to be here on this earth, there will always be work for 



H. A. Covington 

the guys and the gals with the tattoos who come out of those trailer 
parks." 

"These who are with us here tonight are the best from that 
time," said Sarah. 

"Oh, jeez, Snoops, I don't want to mess it up for them!" whispered 
Don dismally to Sarah. "Suppose I find out that the Olympic Flying 
Column legend isn't true?" 

"Don, do you remember one of the Old Man's axioms that they 
teach our kids in school?" replied Sarah. "The one about truth being 
an absolute value? That what is true must always, in the long run, be 
good? And what is not true can never in the end be good?" 

"I remember," said Don. "Snoops, one day many years from 
now, you and I will come to one of these gigs and we will be the only 
ones here. We were the youngest. That means that we may well be the 
last to depart. The last to enter the Hall of Valhalla. How will we bear 
it?" 

"We will bear it because that is the Destiny that the gods have 
given us," said his wife. "Don, tomorrow you will do your duty to this 
country and this people, as you have done all your life. Tonight, don't 
worry about it." Don felt a tap on his shoulder. 

"G'day, mate!" said Charlie Randall, grinning and shaking Don's hand. 
Randall was a tall and weather-beaten looking man of sixty- 
something. Even on a cool Northwest autumn night he still affected an 
Australian safari suit. 

"Hey there, Charlie. Snoops, I need to natter with Charlie a 
bit," said Don. "Can I trust you with this horde of ancient satyrs? Just 
dancing? I'm not going to come back out here and catch you in 
flagrante delicto, now? You know the Republic's law gives me the 
right to plug you both if I do?" 

"Hey, you won't have to," laughed Sarah. "If I even offered and 
flashed them a bit of this alabaster bosom they'd drop dead of a heart 
attack!" 

"I'll make a note of that, Sarah, in case we ever needs to whack 
one of these geezers for reasons of state," replied Charlie with a grin. 
"Quiet, clean, and untraceable." 

After some preliminary socializing Randall and Don Redmond 
got together in a closed-off private room next to the main reception 
area. Outside increasingly drunken old vets of the NVA were 
whooping it up. The band called themselves The Domestic Terrorists, 
and they specialized in Northwest rebel songs, the ones based on old 
bluegrass and Appalachian ballads and also on Irish songs from the 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Provo period and earlier. There were six musicians with various 
combos of banjo, guitar, fiddle, slap bass, bass mandola and tin 
whistle. Their audience's enthusiasm was fueled by copious quantities 
of Red Hook, Henry Weinhard ale, and the Olympic Club's famous 
microbrew, along with generous shots of Old Log Cabin bourbon. The 
air was blue with tobacco both smuggled and domestic product of the 
hydroponic gardens of the state monopoly. "So what can I help you 
with, Don?" asked Randall. 

"Just want to pick your brains on some ancient history, 
Charlie," Don told him. 

"How ancient? Want me to tell you the old abo legends about 
Ayers Rock?" 

"No, a little bit more recent. You were a hunter for a long time, 
weren't you?" 

"Almost ten years after the revolution, before they kicked 
me arse upstairs to this bloody desk job." Redmond's question 
was rhetorical. He knew that Randall had successfully carried 
out assignments as far afield as the United Kingdom and his 
native Down Under. Randall was chief operations officer for the 
War Prevention Bureau and the man largely responsible for 
ensuring that hostile elements within the United States and 
United Nations power structure never succeeded in building up 
the necessary critical mass in military capability, political will, 
or propaganda frenzy to launch a bona fide war of extermination 
against the Northwest Republic. The main tool for 
accomplishing this objective of state was the use of carefully 
targeted, surgical assassinations. Intelligence agents, 
psychological profilers, and political scientists identified those 
relatively minor personalities within the United States who 
might not make trouble now, but were likely to develop the 
capacity to be dangerous to the Republic in five or ten years. The 
hunters removed those people on the sound principle that baby 
rattlesnakes tend to grow into large and venomous rattlesnakes. 
Politicians, community leaders, media people, Hollywood 
entertainment gurus, religious leaders, government officials in 
minor posts, writers and intelligentsia, the entire necessary 
propaganda and logistic infrastructure for launching a serious 
assault against the existence of the Northwest Republic was 



H. A. Covington 

constantly being cut off at the knees. The result was that despite 
repeated efforts on the part of the world establishment to work their 
way up to a serious attempt on the Republic's life, it all somehow 
never seemed to gel. The WPB also had a special unit responsible for 
tracking down and punishing informers and traitors from the old 
days. That unit had shrunk over the years as virtually all such targets 
had been liquidated, but there were still a few accounts remaining to 
be settled. It was national policy to hunt them down with the same 
zeal with which ZOG had pursued veterans of the Third Reich well 
into their nineties. It was a vitally important message to send to the 
rest of the world: betray the white race or conspire to harm the 
Northwest American Republic and you spend the rest of your life 
looking over your shoulder, a life that was very likely to be short. 
"Strewth, best time o' me life, that was," reminisced Randall. "Over 
fifty kills with me own hands and I was in on hundreds more, one way 
or another. Everything from NVA traitors and informers to up and 
coming young blokes in suits we figured was going the wrong places. 
We drink to absent friends tonight. Well, there are some of our so- 
called friends from them days that bloody well deserve to be absent, 
and I made sure of it. Why. what's up?" 

"I'm interested in one of our absent comrades in arms in 
particular," said Don. "Ever chase Trudy Greiner?" 

"That she-devil traitor who sold out Tom Murdock and the 
Olympic Flying Column for a million bucks? For a while, yeah." 
Randall scowled. "She spent a long time at the top of our hit parade, 
believe you me, but she turned out to be the one who got away, damn 
her eyes! What about her?" 

"I've caught a really odd one, Charlie, one that goes back to the 
Olympic Flying Column days, if you can believe that," Redmond told 
him. "I'll fill you in. but first, you were on the team that did in Monkey 
Meat Coleman, right?" 

"I was. Former FATPO Major Coleman was the only blackfella 
who ever rated a special hunt of his own. We brought the whole 
carcass back and stuffed it. 'E's down in storage in our basement up in 
Lacey. One of these days we'll figure out some special propaganda 
event and trot 'im out on display. Wot about 'im? I don't mind talkin' 
about that one to you, Don, never was one for all this inter- 



The Hill of the Ravens 

departmental territorial crap, just so long as you bear in mind it's still 
under the Official Secrets Act and keep all shtum. Corby Morgan 
himself laid this job on me, so it's all good. Charlie, before you killed 
him, did Coleman ever give you any idea what went down with the 
Olympic Flying Column? Who the informer might have been?" 

"We know who the informer was," said Randall in surprise. 
"Trudy bloody Greiner! But in point of fact, yes, we were instructed to 
'ave a quiet word of prayer with Monkey Meat on that subject before 
we sent 'im on 'is way. Just to dot the i's and cross the t's." 

"And?" prompted Redmond. 
Randall looked embarrassed. "Never got the chance. Work 
accident." 

"Beg pardon?" 
"We caught up with Monkey Meat in Detroit. 'E was a so-called 
promoter after he got out of Fattie, ran a couple of nigger boxers and 
rappers, that kind o' crap. What 'e really was, was a dope dealer and 
pimp who moved drugs and girls through a couple of night clubs. Do 
you want the whole thing play by play?" 

"No. I'm only interested in the Ravenhill business," said Don. 
'Good, makes a long story a lot shorter. Coleman knew we were after 'im 
and 'e took precautions. We had to set a honey trap for 'im. used one 
of our female hunters to lure 'im away from 'is entourage. It's 
somebody you may know. She's married now with kids and I don't see 
any need to remind 'er of that part of 'er life unless it's necessary." 

"It's not necessary," said Don, shaking his head. 
Randall continued. "Well, we got Monkey Meat into the trunk 
of 'is own pimpmobile Cadillac all nice and trussed up, gagged with a 
towel, and we drove 'im off to a nice quiet spot for our little Come To 
Jesus session. We got where we was going, popped open the trunk, 
and the monkoid's already dead. 'E knew right well what was coming 
and 'e was so terrified 'e puked, but 'e couldn't because of the gag, and 
'e ended up choking to death on 'is own vomit. We were definitely 
going to ask 'im about Trudy Greiner. We hoped against hope that 'e 
might have some idea where she was and 'e'd try and trade that 
information for 'is own worthless life, but it never 'ad a chance to play 
out." 



H. A. Covington 

"In your professional opinion why, exactly, were we never able 
to catch up with that little lady?" asked Redmond over the babble of 
the crowded barroom next door. "You guys are damned good, and 
that's a fact. You're right, she is our official One That Got Away, and 
I'm curious as to why. In view of what she did, surely you pulled out 
all the stops?" 

"Too bloody well right we did," replied Randall with a scowl 
and a muttered curse. "That bitch is slippery as a bloody eel. It became 
a kind of point of honor with us that one day we'd catch up with 
Trude, but we never did. Back when I was first with the Bureau I once 
spent two months in the living 'ell of a Houston summer trying to find 
'er, just before that worse bitch Chelsea finally handed the city over to 
Aztlan. I finally thought I had 'er, and we moved in for the kill, but 
something tipped 'er off. We missed 'er by about thirty bloody 
minutes. Signs of hurried packing and 'er bloody supper was still 
warm on the table. God alone knows what spooked 'er. I still get angry 
thinking about that. For years she managed to evade us. Then about 
ten years ago we were told to stop looking." 

"What?" asked Redmond in astonishment. "Who the hell 
ordered you to stop looking?" 

"I made it a point to find out," said Randall evenly. "It was the 
Old Man himself." 

"You're joking!" gasped Redmond. 

"Does me ruggedly 'andsome Antipodean countenance betray 
the slightest sign of jocularity, my son? No. we were pulled off the 
Trudy hunt by the then State President Patrick Brennan. I was able to 
learn that this was done at the personal request of the Old Man." 

"Did he ever give any reason?" asked Redmond. "Brennan. I 
mean?" 

"Not that I was ever able to get out of him, and believe me, I 
asked. Unfortunately, he's dead now and he can't speak, and I was 
never offered the opportunity to speak with the Old Man. He was 
pretty much sequestered even a decade ago. officially to protect his 
privacy during his golden years and all that wallaby poop, but 
unofficially to keep him from doing anything in public that might 
prove embarrassing. From what I gather, he's pretty much senile now. 
The Party used to trot him out on formal occasions like a kind of 



The Hill of the Ravens 

stuffed dummy, but not for a long time now. I think they're worried 
he's so far gone he'll drop his trousers and wave his John Thomas at 
the audience. Even if you could get to him and ask him, he may not 
even remember what he did or why the hell he did it." 

"I'm not surprised. The old codger is a hundred and what 
now?" asked Redmond. 

"He was born in 1953. You do the math," said Randall. 

"1953!" whispered Don in awe. "Holy Jesus! Is such a thing 
possible? Look. I know we have the best health service in the world 
and that we have made medical discoveries that have put us decades 
ahead of everyone else. Hell, cancer cures in our hospitals are one of 
our main foreign currency earners. When little Brandon or Jennifer 
has leukemia, all of a sudden us evil Nazis ain't quite so evil. But still it 
seems astounding to me that someone could live that long. Ye gods, 
think of what memories that man must have!" 

"Most of those memories are probably a curse to him now. The 
world he knew is gone forever, for better or for ill. That isn't 
something that should happen to anyone. No man should live too long 
past his time. I don't envy him. You always were obsessed with the 
past." said Randall with a laugh. "You should have been a history 
teacher, not a cop." 

"Those who refuse to learn from the past are doomed to repeat 
it." replied Redmond. 

"Yeah, so they tell me. Anyway, if you by chance to get an 
opportunity to talk to the Old Man, for Christ's sake or Odin's, please 
ask him why he gave that order! I really would love to know," said 
Randall. 

Behind them arose shouts from the elderly audience, 
demanding, insistent. "Rebel song! Rebel song!" the old codgers 
yelled. 

"Are yez all drunk enough?" yelled the bandleader into the 
mike in the ballroom outside. There was a chorus in the affirmative. 

"Then I guess it's time for a rebel song!" The cheers resounded 
as the banjos and guitars struck up an old favorite. 

"It was on a January eve, as the sun was going clown, 
When a truckloadfull of Volunteers approached a Northwest town. 



H. A. Covington 

The stars were bright, and the cold of night, it chilled them 

to the hone. 
And their leader was a Texas man: Jack Smith from SanAntonel" 

"Let me ask you something, Charlie," said Redmond. "That 
time in Houston when you thought you had Trudy Greiner? Where 
was she living? What kind of a place?" 

"Ratty little bungalow in Baytown, it was," replied Randall. 
"She was working as a cashier in a Mega-Mart. We found 'er by 
hacking into the Federal ID card database and doing a holographic 
comparison on 'er facial features. She'd dyed 'er hair and had some 
kind of plastic surgery, but we still made a twelve-point match on a 
Rosa Lee Johnson in Houston and took it from there. Why?" 

"I guess she wasn't able to hold onto the million dollars she 
was paid for her ratting out the Olympic Flying Column, then." 

"Hey, when you gotta keep on moving from place to place one 
step ahead of the Hunters, a million bucks can disappear pretty 
quick," said Randall. 

"Maybe," replied Don. "Or maybe she never had the money to 
begin with. Seems kind of odd, is all. I'm trained to look for odd 
things. How could a woman with a million bucks in her poke end up 
working as a cashier in a Mega-Mart? I sense a certain incongruity 
there." 

"Maybe she gambled it all away in some Indian casino. Look, 
Don, why the questions? Do you know something?" asked Randall 
keenly. "Has BOSS finally got a line on the Greiner woman that I 
haven't heard about?" 

"In a way, yeah. I've been handed a pretty weird assignment, 
Charlie. How's your own Official Secrets Act these days?" 
"Got it off by heart," said Randall. 

"Trudy Greiner's coming out of hiding. Or so she tells us. 
Going to walk right across the border into our arms. On October 22 nd , 
to add insult to injury. She says she's innocent." 
Randall whistled. "You don't say?" 

"I just did say. Or rather she says. We got a letter from her with 
a bloody thumbprint to authenticate it. She says she's Coming Home 
and she wants a trial. A public trial to clear her name. She denies that 



The Hill of the Ravens 

she betrayed the Olympic Flying Column. If she's right we are going to 
have to re-write a lot of our history textbooks, and those new editions 
will be heavily stained with the egg dripping from our faces." 

"She claims she's innocent?" demanded Randall, indignant 
and dumbfounded. "The bloody cheek of 'er! That's impossible! We 
know she did a flit with a million dollary-doos the day after Ravenhill. 
So what is she going to say about that? Tell us her Aunt Millie died 
and she inherited all that lolly and decided to take a vacation right the 
morning after her entire unit is slaughtered? You can*t. .do you think 
she's innocent?" 

"I am investigating the possibility that she may be just that," 
said Redmond. "I'm also supposed to be dotting the i's and crossing 
the t's, in a manner of speaking, but I'm already finding some oddities. 
As to the facts of the matter, I always start with an open mind. Who 
knows? She may yet get her trial, courtesy of the information I dig up. 
I may yet prove that she's guilty as sin. But the can of worms has been 
opened, Charlie, and when one does that the worms crawl out and 
things get kind of squishy." 
From the ballroom the words of the rebel song came loud and clear, the 
audience singing along lustily: 

"In the dark they moved along the street, 

up to thejailhouse door, 

They scorned the danger they would face, 

what fate might lay in store. 

They were fighting for their people's right to make 

themselves a Home, 

And the foremost of that gallant band was Smith from San 

Antone!" 

"You know, John Corbett told me once that he knew Jack Smith," 

remarked Redmond. 
"Yeah?" asked Randall, interested. "Never met him meself. I never got 

out Montana way back in them days." 
"Yeah," continued Redmond. "John C. said that for all his faults, Jack 

Smith was the best man with a gun he ever knew. He told me Smith 



H. A. Covington 

had two outstanding features. The man was as brave as a lion and he 
thought maybe ten minutes ahead, on a good day. He played it all by 
ear, and he had the devil's own luck for a long time. Smith was a 
boozer. Gunpowder and alcohol don't mix, but for a long time his luck 
held. During the first couple of years Jack Smith was personally 
responsible for just about all the Federal body count in 

Montana. He had a very simple philosophy in life: kill the 
enemies of the white race. He got by on sheer raw guts, shot it out 
with a team of six FBI agents in Kalispell and killed every one of them. 
The Party made the not uncommon mistake of confusing personal 
courage with leadership, and so they made him a Commandant. 
Wrong move, but in those days brave white men were in short supply. 
Then his luck ran out. That particular operation they're singing about 
in there wasn't betrayed, at least not in the dramatic sense. Smith 
simply didn't have enough sense or discipline to tell his kids not to go 
into combat drunk or to put their guns away and not fire into passing 
houses as they went into town. Some pale-faced stukach called the 
cops on them when he saw four or five vehicles of armed men rolling 
by hollering rebel yells and shooting out mailboxes." 

"Well, at least it's a great song," pointed out Randall. 

"Yeah, he gave us that," agreed Redmond. "And was it worth it, I 
wonder? Two dead white men and a dozen more in prison for a great 
song?" 

"You know damned well it was," replied Randall. "That great song and a 
hundred more like it helped to make this country. Don. There are 
times when a man must give his life for a song. Quite literally. The 
Irish learned that over many centuries and we were able to learn it 
faster than that, thanks to the Old Man. It was his idea to cannibalize 
and re-write all those old Irish rebel songs. Now they are a part of our 
heritage." 

"But their daring plan had been betrayed. 

The FATPOs lay in wait. 

And a hundred guns poured down that street a hail of 

death and hate! 

And when the shots had died away, 



The Hill of the Ravens 

two men lay as cold as stone. 

There was one kid from Wisconsin, 

and one from San Antone!" 

"You used to be pretty good with a gun yourself during the revolt," said 
Don. 

"Yep, that was when I got my start at hunting. Acquired a taste 
for it." chuckled the old assassin. "Nothing like a dead Jew lying on 
the floor with 'is brains oozing out to give you that solid feeling that 
you're accomplishing something in life. Makes it all seem worthwhile, 
know wot I mean?" 

"Didn't they call you the Prince of Wands?" asked Redmond. 

"That was my media nickname, yeah, but I encouraged it," 
Randall told him. 

"You know about the Tarot cards?" 

"My wife is a witch," Redmond reminded him. "She does a 
reading for me once a week. The whole family, in fact. Cindy El on 
Monday. Allan on Tuesday, Matt on Wednesday, Eva on Thursday, 
John on Friday, and me on Saturdays. She does her own on Sundays 
but she never says anything about what she sees." 

"Uh... right. Anyway, I would drop a Prince of Wands card on 
every dead body I manufactured. The media had a special case of the 
ass for me back then, since I specialized in taking out reporters and TV 
people who seemed to be unaware of the pressing need for balance in 
their reporting of the conflict." 

"The Old Man declared reporters and media personnel to be 
enemy combatants and therefore legitimate military targets," said 
Don." 

"Yeah. That was one of the smartest things we ever did. The 
Old Man knew that media people were essentially even more cowardly 
and attached to their wretched little lives than most middle 
Americans. Once they understood that they would be held personally 
responsible for the content of their reportage, then all of a sudden they 
got a hell of a lot more restrained. They would either see the Party's 
point of view, or else they'd see me, and they bloody well didn't want 
to see me. Our team used to specialize in hunting down talking heads 



H. A. Covington 

from the Sunday morning cable shows who made a career of bad- 
mouthing the NVA and white people in general. That was interesting 
work. Took us all over the empire, New York and L. A. and Atlanta. 
After a few of those talking heads ended up with their genitalia stuffed 
in their mouths and a Prince of Wands on their schnozz, all of a 
sudden the Sunday morning cable discourse assumed a much more 
reasonable tone. We really threw a monkey wrench into the Zionist 
propaganda machine. Their media flacks were all too scared to do 
their job of spreading hatred and lies. I think it could honestly be said 
that Longview was made possible because we stopped those swine 
from keeping the pot stirred to fever heat. That allowed the peace 
movement to grow in the States and eventually gave Bush the Fourth 
enough slack so he could sign the Treaty. Anything else, Don?" 

"No," said Don, "I guess I better get back in there and rescue 
Sarah from that horde of geriatric Lotharios before she gets pissed off 
at one of them and turns him into a toad." From the main ballroom 
came the rousing final chorus: 

"The Lone Star State has lost a son of courage and of pride. 

For he fell beneath Montana's sky, brave Forman by his side! 

They have gone to join that gallant band who held the Alamo, 

Undying fame surrounds his name! 

Jack Smith from San Antone!" 



The Hill of the Ravens 



IV. 



The Redmonds got home from the reunion at well past 
midnight. Baskerville was waiting for them outside and escorted them 
in. then without a woof turned and went back outside to resume his 
vigil. "I'm going to stay down and have a last smoke on one of your 
Dad's fine cigars, if you don't mind." Don told his wife. "I want to 
cogitate on this Greiner thing a bit." 

"Sure, hon." she said. "Just don"t take too long." 

"Just don't be asleep when I get up there, okay?*" he returned 
with a smile. 

"If I am. wake me up," she commanded. 

"Will do. And don't be clothed." 
"Well, if I am, you'll just have to do something about it, won't you?" She 
entwined her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Is that a date?" 
whispered Don. 

"I'd say it's a sure thing." she laughed, low and guttural. 

Don went into his darkened library and sat down on the sofa in 
front of the low embers of the fire. He threw on another log, poked it 
desultorily, and stared moodily into the crackling sparks. He was by no 
means happy about opening this particular can of long-sealed 
revolutionary worms, and he wondered again whether John Morgan 
really meant for him to get at the truth, or find some way to bury it 
forever. Would he do so if it turned out that the price might be an 
innocent woman's life? Don had the lifelong National Socialist's iron 
sense of duty and dedication to the good of the Folk over all, but he had 
also perforce spent his life living in the real world. More than most, 



H. A. Covington 

Don knew that sometimes one couldn't make an omelette without 
breaking eggs. But if Trudy Greiner was in fact innocent of treason, she 
had already suffered through more than thirty years of living hell. The 
Republic was almost unique in the world's comity of nations for its 
complete lack of hypocrisy. It preached a stern and uncompromising 
truth and justice, and it practiced those things as well in a manner 
unknown since the early days of republican Rome. Adolf Hitler had 
always held civitas to be a paramount virtue, and although the 
Republic was by no means a National Socialist state, however Don and 
his comrades might wish it so, its moral and civic code was pure NS. 
NAR politics and policy were remarkable for their almost total lack of 
the kind of gray areas that abounded in other governments. Cicero had 
said that existence of many laws was the sign of a corrupt society. The 
Republic's entire criminal code was contained in a single slim volume 
of two hundred and twenty pages, in fourteen-point type to boot, clear 
and easy to read in every sense. A lot of citizens thought even that was 
too long. Some of the more extreme Christian sectaries wanted nothing 
more than the Ten Commandments. 

Mostly it was just the obvious stuff. No deliberate and 
premeditated murder with the exception of the extremely formalized 
code duello which governed legalized dueling as the ultimate sanction 
to preserve civility within society. (Dueling was legal in the Republic, 
but only between consenting male adults and only after a mandatory 
seven day waiting period for both parties to sober up and calm down, 
and only with advance notice to the Civil Guard and under the 
supervision of the National Honor Court. The whole thing was so 
ritualized that only one or two dueling fatalities occurred every year.) 
No robbing liquor stores. When one is in a position of fiduciary trust, 
one keeps one's hand out of the till. Heroin, cocaine, LSD, and some 
particularly lethal American and Asian designer drugs were proscribed 
and the penalty of erasure was prescribed for possession of them, and 
death for selling them. Everything else was legal; the social stigma 
against addiction combined with the social safety net of guaranteed 
employment and a place in society for everyone kept drug and liquor 
problems peripheral. Don't set fire to things. About a quarter of the 
Republic's legal code was common sense trivia: sanitation regulations 



The Hill of the Ravens 

to make sure people didn't dump toxic waste on the street or into 
public waterways, buried or cremated the dead instead of keeping them 
in the master bedroom like Miss Emily, and traffic law necessary to 
keep everyone driving on the right and make sure motorists stopped at 
red lights, required in order to make sure Seattle and Portland didn't 
turn into Cairo. Driver's licenses had been abolished because they 
constituted a form of national identification which was antithetical to 
liberty and privacy, but if you got drunk and killed or injured someone 
else on the highway, you were held to account the same as if you used a 
gun. The Republic's social contract was based on individual 
responsibility and common sense social duty. 

One of the more truly revolutionary of those laws prohibited 
anyone from accepting any remuneration for the practice of law or legal 
counsel. Those who came before the courts could nominate one or 
more people to speak in their defense, and there were citizens of the 
Republic who, like Cicero, had gained fame with courtroom oratory 
that would have enthralled the Forum. The defendants just couldn't pay 
such advocates anything. The NAR had taken Shakespeare's advice to 
heart and killed all the lawyers. As a result, the law was held in more 
respect and society enjoyed a vibrant and vigorous health unknown 
anywhere else in world. Another law prohibited the acceptance of any 
pay or items of value for the practice of any religious or sacerdotal 
office. The removal of the attorney from society made sure that the law 
served as a shield and not a sword, and most certainly not a trough at 
which parasites in expensive suits slurped away their lives at the 
expense of others. The removal of the priest with his tax exemption 
from the pecking order had in turn removed the problem of organized 
religion from the social and economic equation, and reduced religion to 
the purely theological level, which helped in maintaining the delicate 
social balance between peoples of conflicting faiths. Priests and 
ministers who were required to work for a living and pay taxes like 
everyone else found remarkably little time for political agitation. 
Churches that were required to pay property taxes found very little 
money left over for funding dubious social and political causes that had 
nothing to do with God. 



H. A. Covington 

More than anywhere else in many centuries, in the Northwest 
American Republic the law and morality were almost completely 
synonymous, since neither entailed a cash register. Never before had 
Don been given a single order by his superiors that he found morally 
objectionable or even dubious. But now, for the first time in his career, 
Don was confronted with the possibility that he might have to commit a 
moral wrong, a sin as the Christians would say. in order to best serve 
his people and his country. For if Trudy Greiner's claim of innocence 
was true, then an immense amount of history would have to be re- 
written, and Don was not at all sure that would be considered 
politically expedient, true or not. BOSS did not only deal with state 
security. When necessary, it dealt with political inexpediency. Such was 
the reality of statecraft since time immemorial. What if she really is 
innocent? wondered Don in agony. Whatever then? 

There was a soft knock on the door. "Dad?" asked Eva. She was 
in her nightdress, bathrobe and slippers. "You drunk?" 

"No,*' chuckled Don. "Although I'd take it kindly if you and 
Cindy would do breakfast tomorrow and let your Mom sleep in, OK? 
She might have a bit of a bad head." 

"You got it. Dad, can I talk to you about something? Something 
serious?" 
"Ah, one of our little private chats? Any time. Evie. You know that. Park it 
there, squirt." She sat down beside him on the sofa. "Now tell me, 
what's on your mind?" 

"Is Cindy El going to marry Mark Conway?" Eva asked. 
"Yes. Okay, I think I see what's coming." He leaned forward and spoke to 
her gently. "Eva, arranged marriages have become a widespread 
custom in the Republic, an urgently necessary custom that has grown 
up because of our acute need to rebuild and reconstitute the Aryan 
family as the basic building block of society, and because there simply 
must be more of us! ZOG almost destroyed a three thousand year-old 
civilization by destroying the people who created it, and we have to 
grab back control of our destiny from them immediately, before the 
next generation. Marriage today is recognized as a civic duty for all our 
citizens, a vitally urgent matter of state. It is no longer a private matter, 
and hindsight tells us that it never should have been. The whole history 



The Hill of the Ravens 

of our race and our culture tells us that marriage is the natural state of 
men and women, and that when large numbers of people, especially 
women of child-bearing age, remain unmarried and babies aren't being 
born, then that is a sign that something is gravely wrong. More than 
that, marriage is the union of two families, and that is something that 
concerns the entire community. Our ancestors recognized that fact, for 
millennia. Yes, I know that can be a pretty cold-blooded thing 
sometimes, if it is not done with compassion and humanity. But after 
some years we are recovering the ancient social skills necessary to 
make it work, and it doesn't have to be a bad thing, Evie. Mark and 
Cindy are two shining examples of how the system can work. But as for 
you... honey, it's a custom, not a law. When you get your citizenship 
certificate and you are a grown woman in the eyes of the world, then it 
is your absolute legal right to make your own choice. And I will never, 
ever criticize or try to pressure you. Nor will your mother, although I 
think she's already trying to line up... " 

"I go to Coven and I know who she's trying to line up," 
interrupted Eva with a small shy smile. "Let's just say he's a definite 
maybe, okay? But that's not what I want to talk to you about. Dad, I 
want to ask you something, although I know it's something you don't 
want to talk about," she went on tentatively. 

"Er... honey, if it's what I think it is, it's your mother's job to 
give you the Little Talk," said Don, suddenly nonplussed. 
"No, it's not that," said Eva with a giggle. "I know what men and women 
do with one other in bed, Dad." 

"Do you indeed? And how do you know?" 
"I just know, OK? And not from personal experience, so please don't go 
pistol-whipping any of the boys at school, will you? But that's not it." 
"Then what?" 
"Dad... what happened during the Cleanup?" 

Redmond sat in surprised silence for a moment. "Lord, honey, 
what brought this on all of a sudden?" he asked. 

"I was talking to... well, to a friend at school today. She says 
there's a mass grave under the dump in Tumwater from the revolution, 
with hundreds of bodies of dead black people and Mexicans and 
Chinamen in it." 



H. A. Covington 

"Your friend is full of sheep dip! No, honey, I can tell you right 
off, that's wrong," said Redmond immediately. 

"How would you know?" demanded his daughter. "Is it because 
you know where the mass graves really are? 
"Because that wasn't... well, because I happen to know something about it 
from being involved in political policing." 

"Look, Dad, I'm old enough to know the truth. If you don't want 
to talk about it, just say so. But if you do I want straight answers. If 
you're not going to be honest, there's no point in our taking this any 
further," said Eva softly. She got up and walked to the door. "Good 
night, Dad." 

"All right," replied Redmond, somehow understanding that this 
was not something that could be evaded. All of a sudden he knew that 
his daughter's future quite possibly hung on this discussion. "In point 
of fact, yes, there are still some bodies buried out in the woods in 
various remote places around the Republic, but they were put there 
during the War of Independence and they're combat casualties. Ours 
and theirs, when the NVA had to inter the dead and then move out, 
fast. After the revolution we weren't able to find them all and give them 
decent burial, although every effort was made. Sometimes the guys just 
plain didn't remember. Every now and then we still find some of those 
dead, and when we do they are exhumed and buried with all reverence 
and respect, where possible with either a Tricolor or an American flag 
on the grave, if the identities can be determined. The Federal war 
cemeteries are the only places in the Republic where the American flag 
is allowed to be flown, as you may be aware. But there are no mass 
graves of the kind you're talking about from the Cleanup. Not under the 
dump in Tumwater or anywhere else. The remains weren't disposed of 
in that manner." 

"How were they disposed of?" cried Evie, frightened and upset. 

"That I will not discuss with you," said Redmond. 

"Why not?" she demanded. 

"Because it's not important. Because those wretched people 
aren't important. Because what was done was done so that we who kept 
faith with our blood and with common decency would never again even 
have to acknowledge that they ever existed. Evie. you asked me a 



The Hill of the Ravens 

question. In a way I suppose it's a question that all of us who lived 
through that time always dread hearing from our children, but you're 
right, you're old enough. You say you know how babies are born, so you 
have a right to know how your country was born. I'll do my best to give 
you an answer. But I can't give you a simple answer, because there isn't 
one. When nations come into being, especially when they come into 
being through revolution and turmoil, very little is ever cut and dried 
and there are always a dozen versions of every story. I'll do my best to 
tell you about the Cleanup, but you must come back here, sit down, and 
let me do it in my own way. It's going to take me a while, so bear with 
me." Evie walked back to the fireplace and sat down at the end of the 
sofa. "I said I can't give you a simple answer, but I can give you a short 
one. Do you want that or the long version?" 

"I want both," said his daughter. 

"All right. The short answer is this. There are times when 
certain things simply have to be done. You don't try to justify them, 
because they can't be justified. You simply do these things, and you 
never talk about it afterwards. We did what we had to do. That's it." 

"Okay, now for the long answer. You have to talk about it, Dad." 
said Evie. "You have given me this great life and this great family and 
this great home, and don't think I'll ever forget it. You've also been my 
best friend, ever since I was little. If you're worried about losing my 
love or my respect, don't be. That's never going to happen. But you 
have to tell me how my world came to be. All of it." 

"Jesus, you sure you're only fifteen, girl?" asked Don in 
bemusement. He sighed and lit one of President Morgan's Havana 
cigars. "Right from the start, let's get some things clear. Your 
grandfather was involved in the Cleanup, very much so, because it was 
his duty. To a lesser extent, so was your Aunt Tori, and so was old Mr. 
Nash, your grandfather's butler." 

"Corey Crotchety?" laughed Evie, unbelieving. "He's just a 
grumpy old man! He wouldn't hurt a fly!" 

"That shows how little you know," her father told her gently. 

"Mr. Nash was your grandfather's... well, never mind. Let's just 
say that back in those days he did a good deal of what was called wet 
work." 



H. A. Covington 

"Mr. Nash? " exclaimed Evie incredulously, with a light little 
laugh. "He used to play dollies with me when I was little!" 

"Yes. Mr. Nash. I would appreciate it if you would accept what I 
tell you tonight, at least for the time being, and that you not ask any of 
them about that part of their lives. At least not now. Nash would simply 
refuse to talk about it, but John C. and Tori would feel compelled to try 
and explain, and it would be very painful for them. Later, when you're 
older, if you feel you have to... " 

"Okay," agreed Eva. "I won't say anything to Papa John or Aunt 
Tori, and I still don't believe you about poor old Mr. Nash. But Tori told 
me once that she killed a man when she was nineteen. An FBI agent." 

"Yes. She was defending the life of Bill Vitale, who was only an 
infant at the time. But that's another story. You want to know about the 
Cleanup. Both of them made damned sure that your mother and I were 
not involved in any way, and that was absolutely the right thing to do. It 
was a terrible time, and John Corbett kept us both away from it. In any 
case we were both too young, younger than you are now, despite the 
fact that we were Volunteers during the War of Independence. There 
had been work for kids of our age during the revolution. There was 
none for us during the Cleanup. That was for men only, a certain kind 
of man. Men like Tiny Knowlton and Liver-Eating Thomson, men like 
that maniac O. C. Oglevy, men like Bloody Dave Leach, who as it 
happens I will be meeting very soon in connection with a case I am 
working on. That year I started with the first class of the NDF Military 
Academy in Sandpoint, and your mother had to take over the Morgan 
household when John Corbett finally came out of the mountains and 
was able to set one up. We were both of us otherwise occupied during 
that period of this country's history, may thanks be unto God. I was on 
my way to becoming a man, and your mother was on her way to 
becoming a woman." 

"I didn't ask you what you did, I asked you what happened?" 
insisted Eva. "I know that you and Mom and Papa John and Aunt Tori 
and Uncle Matt and Aunt Heather were all heroes who fought for our 
race and our freedom, and I respect you for that. But why won't anyone 
talk about the Cleanup? We get all these TV shows and books and 
magazine articles and stories about the early days of the Party, and the 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Old Man, and all that heroic stuff that happened during the revolution. 
We know all about our space program and the Mars and Luna colonies, 
and how great our industry is and how we are beating the economic 
sanctions the Americans put on us, but no one ever talks about that 
time right at the beginning of the Republic. For years I have been 
hearing all this whispering about disappearances, torture, killings and 
mass graves and white women who went with muds being hung in 
public, about the streets in Seattle and Portland and Spokane running 
red with blood, real nightmare stuff. Dad, you've never lied to me, but I 
have always known there were things you wouldn't tell me, things 
nobody would tell me. Please, what happened? What was it like?" 

"Can I have a minute to chew on that, honey?" asked Redmond. 
He took a minute, a long minute while he puffed on his cigar and the 
smoke rose in lazy wreaths about his head. "Okay, Evie, I'll do my best. 
I know you have been taught some things about the past in school, but 
I'm sure they don't really seem real to you. In a way, that's good. 
There's been a complete transformation of our world since the 
revolution, and it's all been infinitely for the better. The most 
wonderful thing about the War of Independence is you and your 
brothers and your sister, because if that revolution had not taken place, 
you wouldn't exist. Do you know how it all started? I mean the actual 
shooting bit? This holiday we're all going to be celebrating in a couple 
of weeks, do you recall how it originated?" 

"10/22? The Coeur d'Alene uprising? No, Dad, I've not got the 
slightest idea. I've only written about two dozen essays and term papers 
on it since I've been in school, like every other school kid in the 
Republic!" said Eva in some exasperation. 

'Then tell me what started it all," directed her father. 

"At dawn on the morning of October 22 nd , United States 
Marshalls and the Federal Child Protective Services Bureau, otherwise 
known as It Takes A Village, conducted a raid on the home of Gustav 
and Margareta Singer on a quiet residential street in Coeur d'Alene," 
recited Evie from memory out of her textbooks. "They were coming to 
seize the three Singer children, Swanhilde Singer who was ten, Eric 
Singer who was two, and Isolde Singer, the baby. It Takes A Village 
used to come and steal poor white families' kids because they were 



H. A. Covington 

religious or they had pride in their own race, and sell the kids to rich 
people called yuppies who were supporters of the government and 
Politically Correct. The money was called the adoption bond, and 
sometimes they could get hundreds of thousands of dollars for white 
children, because in those days there were so few white babies being 
born. The Federals had adoptive parents selected for the Singer kids, 
who had already put down a cash deposit. A rich stockbroker in New 
York, some government bureaucrats in Washington, and Swanhilde 
was earmarked for two women in California. Why would they give a ten 
year-old girl to two women, Dad? You'd think they could get married 
and have children of their own?" 

"Never mind," said her father grimly. "Go on, honey." 

"The Singers were Old Believers and somebody had called It 
Takes A Village and accused the Singers of using their children in black 
magic rituals and teaching them to be racists by giving them Germanic 
names and reading them stories about the old gods of Asgard and 
Valhalla. So the Feds sent their goons to take the children away. Well, 
this time the yellow hog-jawed doo-doo birds got a surprise!" 

"I gather now you're telling it your grandpa's way," said Don 
with a smile. Evie giggled. 

"I like his way better than the schoolbooks' version," she said 
merrily. 

"Normally I don't like to hear that kind of language out of my 
baby girls, but in this case it's appropriate. Go on." 

"Gus Singer up early because he was doing overtime at his job, 
he looked out his window and saw them outside and realized what was 
happening, and he was able to get to his hidden guns in time. He killed 
one of the SWAT team when they broke down his front door, and they 
ran away, but then they surrounded his house and were about to start 
firing tear gas into the place, never mind that the kids were in there. 
Then all of a sudden the windows opened in all the houses up and down 
the street, and all the neighbors who had hidden away their own guns 
after the Schumer Act stuck the barrels out and opened fire on the 
Feds. Seems that Gus Singer was quite a well regarded man in the 
neighborhood because he had saved some old people a few months 
before when he ran into their burning home and pulled them to safety. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

The neighbor people who survived later said they weren't Party 
members, nobody ordered them to do it, but all of a sudden that was 
just it. They'd had enough." 

"Yes, and that was the miracle of 10/22," said Don softly, 
staring into the fire, after all these years still awed by a feeling of divine 
presence in that day. "Finally, finally, after all those years of crawling 
on our bellies and thumping our tails between our legs like whipped 
dogs, white men finally had enough! Then it got on the news, and while 
the bullets were still flying the local Party people in Coeur d'Alene got 
their own guns out of hiding and took over the government offices and 
television stations downtown. They overran the police headquarters 
and got more guns, and the Old Man was flown in from Spokane in a 
stolen police helicopter. He lined up every white man with a weapon, 
had them raise their right hand and put their hands on the Bible or 
Mein Kampf as their consciences dictated, and told them they were 
now the Northwest Volunteer Army. The Party and the NVA 
proclaimed the Republic, and all of a sudden it was a revolution. The 
first Republic lasted sixteen days before the uprising was crushed," Don 
reminded her, "You remember seeing the last Tricolor that flew in 
Coeur d'Alene in the Hall of Heroes when you were little. Evie? The one 
that was all shot up? I think that's our country's most sacred relic. That, 
and the gold cross that was around Melanie Young's neck when she 
died. But after that came the guerrilla war, year after bloody year of it, 
and finally we drove ZOG out and forced them to the table at the 
Longview peace conference." 

"And after Longview came the Cleanup," said Evie pointedly. 

"Sorry, Dad, you're not getting off the hook." 

"I'm not trying to, honey. Do you get the point I'm trying to 
make? What finally pushed white men over the edge, Evie? It wasn't 
the affirmative action that made it impossible for us to get jobs or get 
our kids into college. It wasn't the humiliating Diversity Oath that 
rubbed our noses in the mud every time we took a new job or tried to 
get a mortgage or needed something from the government. It was when 
they started coming for our children. I think there is a kind of biological 
instinct among all living things that demands they protect their young, 
and which simply will not be denied. Men are intelligent and therefore 



H. A. Covington 

it is possible for the forces of evil to manipulate men's minds, suppress 
and distort that instinct for a while, but never permanently. Somehow, 
something just tripped in the minds of those people on that street in 
Coeur d'Alene that morning. Something a whole people had been 
awaiting for almost a century. They saw those Federal murderers in 
their arrogant big Bakelite helmets and their body armor and knew that 
they were coming for children, for their children, for all children. 
Without one single word of political indoctrination, all of a sudden 
those ordinary neighbor people got it. In one flash of cosmic 
consciousness they understood what people like the Old Man had been 
trying to tell them for decades. They knew what they had to do, and 
they did it. They took up weapons into their hands and they fought to 
the death against the Federal government of the United States of 
America, the fount and wellspring of all that was evil in their time. 
That's the real story of the Cleanup, Evie. We knew what we had to do 
in order to secure the existence of our people and a future for white 
children, and we finally did it. 

"What you have to understand is that at the beginning of this 
century our people, our Folk, the white-skinned race that we call Aryan, 
was on the verge of extinction. Had nothing been done, by this time 
your mother and I would be among the youngest white people still left 
alive on this continent, if we were still alive at all. which is doubtful. 
Just as white people in the United States are now an aging, shrinking 
minority, many of whom risk their lives every year running the border 
from the U. S. and from Aztlan in a desperate attempt to reach the 
Republic. I know that to you these are just words. You can't imagine 
what it was like. Thank God for that! That's what we were fighting for, 
so that our children would never know just how real and terrible it all 
was. I can only remember a little of it myself, for which I am grateful. 
But the danger was real, it was imminent, and it was overwhelming. 
The powers that ruled the world then and still rule most of it today had 
condemned the white race to death. 

"Then, in this one incredible starburst of wonder and glory, the 
revolution happened. You know that I am a National Socialist myself, 
but that doesn't mean that I do not believe in God. I do, and I will 
always be convinced that the Party, the revolution, and the War of 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Independence that made that revolution a reality were the result of 
divine, cosmic intervention. God finally raised His hand to save his 
most beloved children from death. He didn't do it with a thunderclap or 
a Biblical flood. He didn't do it with Jeeeee-zus coming down and 
touching his toe on the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem and rapturing the 
faithful and sending i44,ooorighteous Jews running into a chasm. 
Somehow God lifted the clouds from our minds and enabled a few of 
us, men like George Lincoln Rockwell, Richard Butler, Bob Matthews. 
Robert Miles, the Old Man and your own grandfather, to shake the 
Zionist poison from their minds and recover their courage and fight 
back. It is said that the Old Man has spent his entire life wondering why 
we did not fight. I have spent mine wondering why we did. It's always 
fascinated me. 

"Eva, you know that video they play every night at midnight 
when the television broadcasting day signs off? That scene at the end of 
the Longview peace conference, when Cathy Frost walks out of the 
town hall with a Tricolor under her arm? In dead silence, surrounded 
by media and dignitaries and bureaucrats and the President of the 
United States? No speeches, no word of warning, just all of a sudden 
they all came out and walked up to the flagpole outside the hotel. She 
steps forward, this woman whom everyone watching knows has lost her 
husband and her children to the Zionist murderers. This proud and 
quiet woman who was so hideously tortured and degraded in prison. 
She calmly hauls down the American flag, hands it to the American 
President, and then runs up the Tricolor, and the loudspeaker system 
suddenly bursts forth with A Mighty Fortress Is Our God? No other 
words were necessary. All of a sudden every white man and woman 
watching, reporters, soldiers, diplomats, no matter which side they are 
on, bursts out cheering and crying, jumping and shouting and laughing 
and pounding one another on the back? In that moment all the world 
knew that from that day on, there was a new nation on the face of the 
earth. The world also knew that from now until the end of time, 
somewhere on the planet there would be men and women with white 
skins and fair hair like yours and beautiful green eyes like your 
mother's. You may have noticed that whenever I'm home, I always go to 



H. A. Covington 

bed before the nightly sign-off, no matter what's on? It's because I 
cannot bear to look at that tape even today, without weeping." 

"I cry when I see it, too," admitted Eva softly. "Sometimes." 
"I'm glad, Evie, because that tells me you understand a little of what it 
means every time you look up and see that green, white and blue flying 
in the sky. Okay. I know I'm beating around the bush here, so I'll tell 
you what I can about the Cleanup. That day at Longview was a 
wonderful, great historical moment, but like all such moments, it passed 
and the Party had to get down to the hard business of making a state and 
governing. It was months before the details of the treaty could be 
worked out, and more before the last Federal troops and police were 
pulled out, and they were bad months. There were constant clashes even 
after the signing of the treaty. The NVA had just become the Northwest 
Defense Force, and we moved out of the forests and the mountains into 
the towns and cities. Sometimes the Feds and the local ruling elite, the 
lefty liberals and the Chamber of Commerce business types who had 
grown fat and wealthy under American rule, didn't feel like giving up 
power to the Party. They tried to resist and we had to administer a very 
sharp lesson so that everyone would know that things had changed. 
Those were very edgy times. I actually saw more street fighting in 
Seattle after the treaty was signed than I had done before, during the 
rebellion. But one day, appropriately on October 22" , five years after 
Gus Singer and his family died in their burning home, the last Federal 
soldier withdrew and the Homeland was ours. And then, we had some 
cleaning up to do." 

"Was that when you killed all the Jews and the people with dark 
skins?" asked Eva. 

"Actually, no," said Don with a smile. "I know that's a common 
rumor, but I do remember enough to tell you that's not true. We actually didn't 
catch many Jews. They almost all ran away during the revolution, as soon as 
they saw they wouldn't be able to contain it. The few who were dumb enough 
to stay and try to play macho man didn't make it, but there weren't many of 
them. They all spoke enough Hebrew to understand Mene, mene, tekel 
upharsin. The various non-white minorities who lived in the Northwest under 
American rule were also more or less driven out of the Homeland during the 
revolution itself. After all, many of them had fled their own countries to get 



The Hill of the Ravens 

away from men with guns and they were no more willing to stand and fight 
here than they were in Roachistan or wherever. The most effective way we 
found to persuade the muds to go elsewhere was not to kill them, but to apply 
economic pressure. Oh, sure, there were a lot of instances where NVA people 
attacked and killed non-whites, usually in retaliation for their attacks against 
white people. But we never made a practice of killing them for its own sake. 
There were simply too many of them. We could have slaughtered muds 
until we rotted, and we would have accomplished nothing. They weren't 
the problem. The Federal government of the United States was the 
problem, and beyond them the super-wealthy men who owned 
America. 

"Even though he was in prison, the Old Man had the brilliant 
idea of cutting off the mud people's cash flow from the taxpayer and 
from the wealthy men and corporations who brought them here in the 
first place. He was able to get the order out from his isolator cell, and 
we followed it. Employers who hired Mexicans or Chinese or Somalis 
came in to work one morning and found their establishments burned to 
the ground. We did the same to hundreds of the little corner shop and 
convenient stores and motels owned by Koreans and Indians and 
whatnot. We didn't have to kill anyone. The rich men got the message 
very quickly and much more effectively. If we'd killed their mud labor 
they would simply have brought in more, but burn down their buildings 
and their equipment? Their means of production? That hit the rich men 
where it hurt. They became sudden converts to the many benefits of 
hiring white labor, and all of a sudden the pastures for Third Worlders 
got very much greener elsewhere than the Pacific Northwest. After 
Jerry Reb burned or blew up all the welfare offices, destroyed the 
records, and publicly flogged, tarred and feathered some state and 
Federal bureaucrats, the welfare system broke down and there was a 
massive flight of blacks and browns and yellows out of the Homeland. 
After the first year of the war the United States government never got a 
penny in taxes out of the Pacific Northwest. That's how colonial wars 
are won, Eva. How we won. The generals never surrender. The 
accountants do. The Pacific Northwest became a luxury that the 
Americans couldn't afford. I helped torch the IRS office in Olympia 
myself. Your grandfather let me strike the match," chuckled Don 



H. A. Covington 

reminiscently. "But yes, when the muds declined to take the hint and 
leave our land, they were killed. It was race war, honey, and your 
uniform was the color of your skin. I make no apology for that. We were 
doing what we had to do to ensure the continued existence of our own 
people. By the time the Cleanup came, the non-whites and the Jews 
were almost all gone, some dead, but most of them fled back to the 
States. 

"But there were a lot of problematic white people who were still 
around. You have to bear in mind that there were some people in the 
Homeland who had a vested interest in the old order, who had done 
well and made piles of money under the Americans. There were also 
those who either could not or would not adapt to living in a country 
based on racial foundations, or any moral foundations. Like the non- 
whites, most of them had sense enough to understand what would 
happen to them without the Federal authority to protect them, and they 
ran. A minority of them didn't. The stupid ones, the arrogant ones, the 
ones filled with hubris who thought they were John Wayne waving the 
Amurrican flag and who simply could not comprehend the type of total 
transformation that had taken place within the souls of an entire race of 
people. So they stayed and they gave trouble. They got one warning, 
because we knew that in some cases they genuinely, honest to God 
could not understand that things had changed. We weren't punishing 
them, we were simply explaining the new reality to them in a way most 
calculated to make sure they got it. Usually that one warning came in 
the form of a very brutal public beating." 

"The Biff Boys!" said Evie. 

"Yes, that's one of my favorite TV shows as well," chuckled 
Redmond. "They were also called Thumper Squads. The boys didn't 
just beat people up, though. Their purpose was to accomplish a specific 
psychological and political goal, not just beat people for the hell of it. 
When it was appropriate, they also did funny stuff like grabbing 
Christian preachers who talked sh... who, uh, preached against the 
Party from the pulpit, stripping them naked and chasing them down 
the street with flowers sticking out of their butts." Evie giggled. "That 
was actually a lot more effective than killing the idiots, you know. Kill 
them and you make martyrs out of them. But it's kind of hard to take 



The Hill of the Ravens 

someone seriously when you've seen them doing a River Dance on a 
leash, butt nekkid with a flower sticking out of their ass. There were all 
kinds of merry little japes like that, not fatal or even painful, just 
humiliating and ridiculous. Then there was my absolute favorite of all 
time. There was the Kitty Call." 

"Oh, come on, now, Dad! Did that really happen?" laughed Evie. 

"Oh, yes," said Redmond with a reminiscent smile. "Yes, it 
really happened. Some nutty professor type on our side invented it. 

I'd suspect Dr. Joseph Cord, if he didn't have a reputation for 
being completely humorless. The Thumpers would grab some liberal 
jackass or some red-white-and-blue John Wayne wannabe, take him 
down to the Civil Guard barracks and give him a forced scrub bath with 
this chemical substance that took a long time to get out of his skin, 
something that made him smell like the most powerful catnip 
imaginable. For weeks after that, everywhere he went, the poor SOB 
would be followed by dozens of mrowling, half-drunk cats who would 
be all over him, purring and rolling and jumping on him and trying to 
eat him. It's kind of hard to make a bold anti-fascist stand against evil 
racism and incite people against the Party in the name of Mom, God, 
and apple pie when you're covered with lunatic cats, and afterwards 
people can never quite get all those kitties out of their mind. You know 
Jay Simpson, the Leader of the Opposition in Parliament? Every now 
and then if he starts getting too loudmouthed at Question Time, the 
Party MPs start meowing at him. It breaks up the whole crowd and 
totally blunts anything Simpson is trying to say. I really wish they'd 
bring that one back to deal with subversives. Who needs the hangman's 
noose or the whip or the cerebral decorticator when you can neutralize 
a traitor with a following of furballs?" 

"You really don't want to talk about it, do you, Dad?" asked Eva 
softly. "Look, I guess I shouldn't have asked." 

"No, I don't want to talk about it, but I have to. It's a legitimate 
question, honey," said her father soberly. "Okay, I'll drag myself kicking 
and screaming back to the point. A lot of disloyal people couldn't be 
dealt with through beatings or cats, because they really were potentially 
dangerous to the revolution, or more often because there was also a 
matter of moral justice involved. For three generations America did 



H. A. Covington 

terrible things to our people, and that was very bad. But certain people, 
certain white people, actually benefitted from those things, benefitted 
in money and power and position in the community, and that was far 
worse. The tyrant's crimes were done with the active assistance of many 
of our own blood, out of willful ignorance or greed or perversion of 
thought. There are times when the willful, deliberate refusal to 
understand constitutes a crime and must be punished. There was a 
cosmic, karmic debt to be paid. Depravity and crapulence must have 
consequences, or else the world ends. Those who had harmed the Party 
in any way, those who had openly sided with the United States and 
given aid and comfort to the tyrant, and those who had defiled their 
bodies and contaminated their souls through carnal lust with non- 
whites or with... well, in other ways... they were killed, Eva." 

He looked at her. "Yes, honey, they were killed, and their 
remains were disposed of in such a manner that no trace of their very 
existence would ever be found. They were returned to the earth, in 
every sense of the word. Where possible, all documentary evidence that 
such people had ever existed was destroyed. Their birth certificates, 
their public records, even private things like photographs and other 
traces, were removed from existence. They had helped oppress and 
murder and defile their own, and for that we made them take their 
medicine. Every last bitter drop. We killed them for the sake of all those 
who had gone before and suffered, for the sake of all those like you who 
were to come. We killed them because it was the right thing to do. 
Those people were a cancer in our body, Eva, and we burned them out 
with fire and sword. Our race was diseased, and we had to sweat blood 
in order to get well again. This country is a small encampment in a 
world of darkness, Evie. We have a few small campfires that give us a 
little circle of light, where we can find warmth and shelter, but beyond 
that little pool of light there are monsters who wait in the darkness to 
devour us all. One of them came into this house many years ago and 
tried to hurt Johnny, as you remember. Your brave and noble mother 
took care of the son of a bitch. Those wicked and stupid people let the 
monsters in and fed them. To this day there are men like Charlie 
Randall who stand between us and the monsters. May God bless and 
guide them in their duty, and may God bless and forgive those of us 



The Hill of the Ravens 

who did what we had to do to get those few little fires lit and give our 
terribly endangered race this perilous little island of safety. As small 
and as uncertain as it is, it is more than we had when I was born. That's 
all I can tell you, honey." He spread his hands. 

"You stand between us and the horror as well, Dad," said Eva. 

"You're BOSS." 

"I try, hon." 

"Thanks, Dad." 

"Well, like I said, you had a right... " 

"No." she said. "I don't mean for answering my questions. I 
mean thanks for being who you are and what you are. For standing 
between me and Cindy El and John and the horror beyond the 
campfire." 

"You're welcome, honey," said Redmond with a smile. 

His daughter rose, kissed him and went upstairs to bed. Don 
puffed on his cigar for a while. "You heard?" he asked over his shoulder 
to a large armchair in the corner. 

"I heard." said Tori Stoppaglia. 

"I was waiting for you to jump in," said Don. 

"No need," replied Tori. "You did a great job, Don." 

He was silent for a while. "I really don't remember all that 
much, you know. How bad was it?" he asked her. 

"Worse than anything you can possibly imagine," replied Tori. 
"Worse than anything that had gone before. Our hearts turned to stone 
in those days. It was the only way we could do what had to be done. 
Don, thank you for not making me tell her. I couldn't bear it, although 
every day my mind and my heart tell me that we could do no other than 
what we did. I couldn't lie to her, and then for the rest of her life she 
would think of. ..that time... whenever she thought of me. Thanks for 
sparing me that. Don. It's best for Evie as well. She has no need 
whatsoever to carry that burden. It is not hers. It is mine and John 
Corbett's, and the others' as well. That's one of the reasons I skipped 
the reunion tonight. My own time is coming soon, Don, and the weight 
of it is making me afraid. I didn't want to remember." 



H. A. Covington 

"God knows your heart," said Don. "He knows what happened, 
better than you do. God also knows what would have happened had any 
of you flinched or fled from your duty. You need not fear Him." 

"We did what we did so that she and all of her generation 
wouldn't have to." 

"If our fathers, or our grandfathers had done their racial duty 
then you would not have been forced to do it. If you hadn't done it at 
long last, then nothing would be left of a three thousand year-old 
civilization. Someday the sun will rise and we won't need the campfire 
any more. Because of what you did in the darkness, Eva and her 
children will be able to live in the light. Thanks, Tori." 
"You're welcome," said the old woman. 



The Hill of the Ravens 



V. 



In the thin gray autumn dawn of the next morning, Don silently 
arose, dressed, slid his electric ground car quietly out of the garage, and 
went in to work early, leaving his sleeping wife to enjoy a late breakfast 
courtesy of her daughters. Don grabbed a breakfast tray at the 
basement canteen and spent the next several hours at his desk going 
over the old BOSS files he pulled out of the archives on the hunt for 
Trudy Greiner. Some were in old-fashioned manila file folders, some on 
ancient computer 3.5 diskettes, and others had been transcribed to 
modern plasma tubes. These records were handy because they 
contained what surprisingly little documentation had been recovered 
from the Federal intelligence services regarding the Ravenhill Ranch 
ambush. Sarah had told Don that in a past life he was once a medieval 
monk in charge of a scriptorium, and certainly he had an innate love of 
anything to do with books and paper documents. Computers and corns 
and readographs seemed crass to him. These files also included 
contemporary news media reports of the ambush, including glassined 
newspaper clippings and video clips of the news reportage from such 
old-time media groups as CNN and Fox News. Don watched the CNN 
aerial footage of the Ravenhill ambush on his screen for a couple of 
minutes and then abruptly switched it off and moved on. The office was 
filling up with his brother officers coming in to work, and he did not 
want them to see him weep. There was a sworn statement from the vice 



H. A. Covington 

president of the Bank of America branch in Westlake, one J. P. Van Der 
Merwe, regarding the cutting and issuing of certified cashier's check 
number #8446728876 to one Gertrude Greiner. Redmond made a note 
to see if Van Der Merwe could be located even at this late date. The 
million dollars promised to be the fly in any ointment. Most 
importantly, the BOSS files contained updated bios and addresses on 
the survivors of the Ravenhill disaster. 

At 1000 hours Don met with General Stephen Capshaw, his 
David Niven-ish superior. On Capshaw's left cheek was a long scar that 
complemented his aristocratic appearance; it might have been a saber 
scar from some collegiate duel in a nineteenth-century German 
university. In fact it had been inflicted on Capshaw at age twenty with a 
razor blade embedded in a toothbrush, by a Jamaican inmate in 
Britain's infamous Parkhurst prison on the Isle of Wight, where 
Capshaw had been doing a stretch under the equally infamous Race 
Relations Act for British National Party activity. "John Corbett wants 
me to do something for him," Redmond told him. 

"So I gathered, Colonel. Can you tell me about this one?" 
inquired Capshaw politely. 

"I don't see why not, sir," said Don. "John C. didift say not to, 
and one way or the other, in a few weeks everyone is going to know 
about it. The Northwest American Republic is in for a bit of high 
drama, it seems. Trudy Greiner is coming back. Says she's innocent." 

"Trudy Greiner?" said Capshaw, frowning and puffing on his 
Dunhill pipe. "Ah, yes, the Olympic Flying Column incident. Nasty 
business, that." 

"Nastier than that, we don't get 'em." Don went over his latest 
assignment from the State President point by point. 

"Yes, I see," said Capshaw with a frown when Redmond had 
finished. "Bit of a balls-up, eh what? A skeleton from the Republic's 
early days about to come dancing out of the closet. Rum show all 
around. I don't envy you this one, Redmond. Dancing skeletons can be 
a damned nuisance. They call their own tune and sometimes they 
refuse to stay buried. This one could blow up in our faces, if you'll 
pardon my mixed metaphors." 

"Do skeletons explode?" asked Don. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Sometimes they can, yes." replied Capshaw grimly, pipe smoke 
curling over his head. "If the Greiner woman is truly innocent, then it 
may force some re-writing of this country's history in a way we can ill 
afford. Plus there is the problem of just who the bloody hell did grass 
on Murdock and his crew if she didn't, and what they may have been up 
to in the intervening time. Doesn't paint the Bureau of State Security in 
a very flattering light, does it? Lying down on the job for more than 
thirty years? Very bad cess indeed. See here, Redmond, do you think 
this is sufficiently sensitive to merit a delay in breaking in your new 
partner? In view of the social, political and military eminence of some 
of the people you will have to speak with, you might want a more senior 
man, rather than a detective sergeant. I can pull Captain Brady or 
Major Engelhardt off their present assignments," offered Capshaw. 

Don shook his head. "Sir, Brady is tracking a very dangerous 
mole who has betrayed some of our sanction-busting overseas suppliers 
to the Americans. Several key men in those companies within the 
United States have disappeared, presumed arrested and/ or executed by 
the Office of Northwest Recovery. We need to plug that leak fast before 
others get the idea we can't protect our friends and certain very 
necessary sources of supply dry up. Engelhardt is on loan to the War 
Prevention Bureau and he's hunting in New York. No idea who he's 
hunting and I don't need to know, but they wouldn't have sent him if he 
wasn't needed, and so he's unavailable. I don't see why I shouldn't take 
a sergeant. I've worked with Hennie Nel on several prior task forces 
and we mesh well, as I recall. He follows orders and seems to grasp the 
essentials of a case quickly. He has a very good record with the Civil 
Guard, not just as a street cop, but he also spent a couple of years as a 
detective with the CID working regular criminal cases before he applied 
for BOSS. Despite the possible implications I don't think I'm going to 
run into any seriously sticky situations after all these years. If I do, he's 
the Washington state bare-knuckles champion and he's got two line-of- 
duty kills of his credit. Frankly, I am not certain I am going to be able to 
find anything at all. We may just have to sit back and listen to what 
Trudy has to say when she shows up. If she shows up. Don't worry, Nel 
will do me fine." 

"Rather a moody chap, wouldn't you say?" suggested Capshaw. 



H. A. Covington 

"Of course, most of these Jaapies are." 

"In view of the fact that their nation is on the verge of extinction 
and there are now more Afrikaners here in the Homeland than there 
are remaining in South Africa, I can understand why he's moody on 
occasion. The Aryan race is about to lose her youngest child beyond 
recovery. It's a horrific tragedy which I frankly don't think the Republic 
is doing enough to prevent." 

"Quite, quite," said Capshaw. "My understanding is that we're 
allegedly just waiting for the right time to intervene in South Africa and 
restore white rule there. We have been waiting for several decades and 
now there's virtually nothing left to restore. Pragmatic Tendency and 
all that rot. Right, Nel it is. Off you go, then." 

Don made a call on his pocket com and when he returned to his 
own office he found his new partner Sergeant Hendrik Nel waiting for 
him. Nel was a square-built, burly Afrikaner with a blond buzz cut who 
looked completely at home in the sharp creases of the broadcloth zoot 
suit he wore, although he didn't seem to have a hat. His face was 
battered from the several thousand blows he had received during bare- 
knuckles boxing bouts, his nose bent and both ears well cauliflowered, 
but in the Republic such a physiognomy was considered to be one of 
the most honorable and manly of any, the badge of the NAR's second 
national sport, the first being riflery. Redmond had familiarized himself 
with Nel's personnel file and was aware that the sergeant was legally 
supporting four illegitimate children in addition to his four legitimate 
ones, which his prize purses in addition to the Republic's child 
allowances enabled him to do. Northwest women notoriously found a 
true Aryan warrior irresistible. "Morning, sarge," Redmond greeted 
him. 

"Good morning, Colonel." replied Nel in his stilted accent, 
almost Cockney-like to anyone not familiar with the dialect of Africa's 
white tribe. 

"Sergeant, looks like our first job in harness together's going to 
be a pretty odd one," said Redmond without preamble. "You will be 
assisting me on a special assignment which has been given to me 
personally by the State President, John Corbett Morgan. You've heard 
of cold cases? This one is right out of the deep freeze. It goes back to the 



The Hill of the Ravens 

time of the revolution here in the Northwest, during the War of 
Independence. You may have heard of Tom Murdock and the Olympic 
Flying Column?" 

"Ja, " replied Nel. "They were a white commando unit who were 
massacred by Fatties at a plek called Ravenhill Ranch." Nel furrowed 
his brow. "Before my time, ek se, but I saw something about it on the 
telly once. They were sold out to the ZOG for money by some damned 
woman. What about them?" 

"The damned woman is coming back," said Redmond sourly. 
"We got a letter from Trudy Greiner saying she's walking through the 
Mountain Gate border crossing on October 22 nd . She says she's 
innocent and she is demanding that we prove otherwise in public 
before we string her up. Great Independence Day present, eh?" 

"Cies! So what does the State President want us to do about it?" 
asked Nel. "Track her down in Aztlan and kill her? Lekker, I'm your 
"own, but I seem to recall the WPB has been trying to do just that for 
more than thirty years. How are we supposed to succeed in less than 
three weeks?" 

"No, we are going to go over that whole episode in our history as 
if it were a fresh criminal case. Look at the evidence, talk to the 
witnesses, your whole basic copper drill. Trudy Greiner is demanding 
that the Republic put her on trial and prove she committed racial 
treason. Our job is to find out whether or not we can prove it." Quickly 
and concisely Redmond ran down the details and the nature of their 
assignment. 

"Eight Volunteers from the Olympic Flying Column survived the 
ambush at Ravenhill Ranch, because they weren't there when it went 
down. We'd better hope that one of those veterans has some new angle 
we can work on, some new bit of information. Otherwise we may get 
caught with our pants down if it turns out that Trudy Greiner has been 
sitting on some kind of bombshell for the past thirty-odd years." 

"So do we know where all eight of the survivors are now?" asked 
Nel practically. 

"Yes. In some cases they have made quite a splash since the war. 
Big Bill Vitale is probably the most well known of them. He is on duty 
down on the Idaho border, and it may take us some time to track him 



H. A. Covington 

down. We'll see him last, but the others shouldn't be too hard to find. 
Admiral David Leach we will be able to see at the Bremerton Navy 
Yard, where he is in charge of a major construction project. I'll call him 
on the way up there and see if we can get an appointment. Frank 
Palmieri is very much a technocrat," continued Redmond. "No mean 
politician, either. He has managed to survive as Minister of 
Transportation under no less than four governments. The Old Man 
appointed him originally and he has managed to cling to the job in spite 
of the fact that almost all of the OM's appointees were kicked out 
during the purges of the last decade when Pragmatic Tendency took 
over the Party. They were considered too NS, most of them, mustn't be 
sectarian, too many open Nazis in government make the bourgeoisie 
and the prim little Christians nervous, all that crap. But Palmieri has 
managed to make himself virtually indispensable. We can kill two birds 
with one stone down in Centralia, since Dr. Joseph Cord lives on base 
at the Space Center and the McCanlesses run a bookstore downtown. 
Lars Frierson is now a high school teacher in The Dalles, Oregon. 
Dragutin Saltovic may be a little harder to track down, but he is in 
Seattle now. I seem to have heard that he is leaving for a concert tour in 
Europe next month." 

"When do we start?" asked Nel. 

"Right now. Let's go." said Redmond. 

"Go where?" asked the Afrikaner. "Which of the eight survivors 
of the Olympic Flying Column do we interview first?" "The ninth," said 
Redmond. 

"Eh?" exclaimed Nel in surprise. "Er, sir, the ninth survivor was 
Trudy Greiner herself." 

"Not really," demurred Redmond. "We always say there were 
only eight survivors of that ambush, nine if we count Trude, but that's 
not true. There were at least a hundred and fifty survivors over and 
above that." 

"The Federals!" exclaimed Nel. 

"Exactly," said Don. "Including the man who defected right 
afterwards to our side along with two of his men, and who afterwards 
proved himself to be a loyal Volunteer and a good citizen of the 
Republic. I'll get us an aircar from the motor pool, and then we're 



The Hill of the Ravens 

heading up to Bremerton. The very first person we interview this 
morning is the one who might be in the best position to give us 
information on the identity of the informer. The man who was on the 
other side. Former Federal Anti-Terrorist Officer Arthur McBride." 



Redmond dropped into the northbound traffic lane at 300 feet 
over Olympia, and they grounded on Seventh Street in Bremerton 
twenty minutes later. From there they drove to the address Don 
programmed into the pilotbot, the one in the files for Arthur McBride. 

McBride himself proved to be a tall and strong -looking old man, 
who still had something of the erect bearing one found in the more 
formally trained veterans from a time of general military sloppiness. 
Being products of their historical time and place, the deadliest of the 
NVA's surviving gunmen from the War of Independence usually looked 
like white-haired old winos or doddering computer nerds from an age 
long gone. Some of them could still be seen lolling around in public 
places like seventy year-old teenagers with long out of date baseballs 
caps stuck onto their heads backwards, still playing ancient Nintendo 
games on handsets, the vets only detectable by their ribbons and the 
pistol butts visible over their waistbands. McBride's own head was 
smooth and silky white, and he wore a neatly trimmed salt and pepper 
moustache. He welcomed the two BOSS agents into his home, a 
bungalow on a quiet side street, without comment or question. He was 
dressed in simple canvas trousers and a woolen pullover sweater. 
Apparently the current 1930s look was not for him. "Let me get you 
both a beer," he said, coming out of his kitchen with three brown 
bottles. "I make my own, like a lot of people in the Republic, and my 
red ale has won a couple of ribbons over there across the water in 
Seattle." McBride produced three glasses from a sideboard, popped the 
bottle caps and poured out. 

"You're retired from the Labor Service, I believe, sir?" asked 
Redmond. "Thank you," he said as he accepted the brew. 

"Ta, mate." said Hennie Nel as he accepted the glass, which he 
hefted in salute. "Skiet 'n Engelsmann!" 



H. A. Covington 

"Yes, Colonel, I'm retired from the Labor Service. After 
Longview I did twenty years in the NDF, left as a Command Sergeant 
Major. I never applied for officer training because of my background. It 
wasn't that I was worried about rejection, it's just that I would never 
have been comfortable with white soldiers calling me 'sir' after what I 
had been. Call it a penance if you like. After that I ended up in the 
Labor Service," he told Redmond as he poured out a glass for himself. 
"A lot of retired NCOs do. Almost as fulfilling as the military in many 
respects. I got a lot of satisfaction over the years, whipping platoons of 
young men and women into functional workers willing and able to pull 
their weight in building a new country. I think I can honestly say that 
none of my boys or girls ever went to the bad in any way." 

"That's the impression I get. I only just remembered the fact, 
but my son Allan served in one of your intakes," said Don. "He always 
spoke well of you." 

"The kid who later became an astronaut?" exclaimed McBride 
with a fond smile. "Yeah, I remember Allan. He was a fine young man. 
You're his father? You must be very proud of him. I understand from 
the newscoms that he's on Mars now." 

"Yes, we are very proud of him. We hope he'll be home by next 
year some time." 

"I hope so as well. Now, what can I do for you, Colonel?" asked 
McBride, sitting down in an armchair. 

"Sir, I know this may be something of a sensitive subject, but I 
am on a job right now that involves digging up a lot of old bones. I need 
to ask you some questions about the time before you joined the NVA." 

"You mean the time when I was a member of the Federal Anti- 
Terrorist Police Organization," replied McBride quietly. "This isn't the 
first time I've had state security around to try and check up on 
something left over from the old days. Even had a few writers and 
journalists and a historian from the Party's Museum of the Revolution 
in Ballard come by. You don't need to dance around the subject. 
Colonel. I don't shout the skeleton in my closet from the rooftops, true, 
but neither have I ever denied it to anyone with any legitimate reason 
to ask." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"I know that. Sergeant Major," Redmond told him. "But 
something has come up. and you may be in a unique position to help 
us. My assignment has to do with the ambush that destroyed the 
Olympic Flying Column." 

"I rather thought it might," said McBride, pursing his lips. "I 
always wondered if and when the authorities in the Republic would 
ever get around to exhuming that particular business. I always felt that 
the full truth never came out. Go ahead and ask what you want, but 
before you proceed, I may be able to tell you something that no one has 
known before." 

"And that is?" asked Redmond. 

"Mmm... tell you what, let's save that for last, shall we? I am 
curious to know what's brought about a revival of the Ravenhill thing 
this late in the day. If you'll go ahead and ask me your questions and I 
can put it in context, my information may mean more." 

Redmond ran it down in his mind and made a quick decision to 
play it the old man's way. "Very well. We have received a 
communication purporting to be from Trudy Greiner," he told 
McBride. "If it's authentic, she says that she is coming back to the 
Republic on October 22 nd . She claims that she is innocent and she is 
demanding a public trial on the allegations against her. You can see 
why your recollections of that time may prove of some importance." 

McBride whistled softly. "Yes, I can. Boy, wouldn't that put the 
cat among the pigeons? I know that the Olympic Flying Column was set 
up by an informer, all right, because I was there when my monkoid 
commanding officer got the call, but I have no idea on earth who it was. 
I told all I knew back then, to Corby Morgan himself, and it was all 
God's own gospel truth. I figured it had better be, seeing as how if he 
thought I was lying about the smallest thing Morgan would have had 
me shot. I'll be glad to go over it again with you, though." 

"Very well, sir," said Redmond. "First I'd like to get some 
personal background. In my initial briefing President Morgan told me 
about the night you and those other two men came into the camp to 
defect." 

"Yes, Lance Corporal Schumacher and Sergeant Petoskey. 
They're both dead now, I'm afraid. Shoe went with Davy Leach in Force 



H. A. Covington 

101, and he was killed during the Cleanup by a Laotian drug gang who 
objected to being put out of business. Pete was killed in an aircar crash 
in Spokane eight years ago. I have never regretted that decision, 
Colonel. It was the most terrible and devastating one I ever made, but it 
had to be. It came from what the mystics call the dark night of the soul. 
In that moment I left behind everything that I had ever been, but in the 
same moment I found what I had always been looking for. This country 
has given me something more precious than any so-called freedom to 
make money hand over fist and to swill consumer goods like a hog at a 
trough until I burst. There are some things in life more important than 
the freedom to go to hell in whatever way one chooses. Things like 
honor, duty, pride and integrity. The Northwest Republic has given me 
the ability to get up in the morning and look myself in the mirror, and 
that was something I never had under the old order. Something no 
white man had back in those days." 

"Curiosity question," said Redmond. "Do your neighbors and 
former co-workers know about your former affiliation?" 

"Yes, I think they do," replied McBride. "I am damned if I can 
explain how, since I never discussed it, but I guess the word simply got 
out into the community by osmosis or something. They all seem to 
know, and yet I have to say that in all the years I have lived here, not 
one individual in this entire community has ever caused any trouble or 
thrown my past in my face." 

"You're not the only Fed who came in from the cold, you know," 
said Redmond. "There were thousands of defectors, people like you 
who could no longer stomach what the government was doing to the 
white people of the Northwest." 

"Yes, I know. But I was unusual, being a FATPO. We were 
supposed to be the elite, you know, the mighty fighters against racism 
and fascism who swept all before us in the name of diversity, and so 
tres chic. Elite, my ass! Mother of God! I never encountered such a 
collection of criminal, half-insane misfits, perverts and thugs of all 
races in my life! It's as if the United States government deliberately 
went out of their way to recruit the very worst white trash, black trash, 
brown trash and yellow trash they could find. The women were worse 
than the men. I could never bring myself to touch one of those leprous 



The Hill of the Ravens 

psycho sluts, which probably was how I started to get a dubious 
reputation among the org. Any white male who refused to partake in 
drugs and sexual degeneracy was suspect. We had to be eminems, or to 
use a less polite designation, we had to be whiggers. You know that 
term, Colonel?" 

"White niggers," said Redmond. "Yes, sir. I know it. It is legally 
considered to be a killing word today in the Republic. You don't call a 
man a whigger unless you're willing to back it up, all the way. The only 
time in my life when I ever took one of my sons out back of our house 
and beat him bloody with my belt, was when I heard him call another 
boy a whigger, however carelessly and unknowingly he did so. He had 
to learn. Then I explained to him what it meant. To his great credit, my 
son voluntarily went to the other boy's home and apologized, and 
without my telling him to do so." 

"You got it. Blacker than the blacks, if we wanted to fit in. 
Monkey Meat Woodrow Coleman was the worst animal of all. I think he 
would have practiced cannibalism if he could have gotten away with it, 
and maybe towards the end there he could have done. On the night I 
heard the WPB had finally tracked him down in Detroit, I popped the 
cork on a bottle of champagne. I really, really hope that some of the 
information I gave helped those hunters, as old as it was." 

"It didn't exactly happen like that," said Redmond, 
remembering his chat with Randall the night before. "But don't worry, 
Coleman had enough time to savor the moment." 

"I'm glad to hear it." 

"So why did you join FATPO in the first place, meneer?" asked 
Nel. 

"Well, if you've read your history books you know the American 
economy tanked under Bush Two and things never really recovered. 
From then on it was permanent depression. When I came out of high 
school in Peoria it was almost unlivable. I couldn't make the affirmative 
action quotas for college, so I went into the Marines at age seventeen. 
By the time I was twenty I had I fought counter-insurgency in the 
occupied lands of the Oil Raj, Iran, Iraq. Syria. Saudi and Egypt, but 
things reached the point where ZOG couldn't even pay its mercenaries 
and I was laid off. I came out of the Corps at a time when civilian jobs 



H. A. Covington 

for white males were almost nonexistent," McBride told them. "My 
mom was very sick with lymphatic cancer and I had to have some kind 
of medical insurance that would cover her. FATPO was one of the few 
jobs going back in those days that still offered any benefits at all. never 
mind medical coverage for family. For what the hell good it did me. 
Mother died shortly afterwards. I hadn't been with FATPO for three 
months before I was ashamed to be seen in that uniform. God in 
heaven, to this day I wonder how some of the people here can forget, 
never mind forgive! 

Let me tell you something that happened to me," McBride went 
on. "A year or so ago, I was in the park here in Bremerton, along with 
two of my grandchildren. I saw a man about my own age, who was also 
there with his own two grandchildren. Our kids were playing together 
on the swings and the monkey bars and obviously having a great time 
of it all, so we nodded to one another. On his lapel he wore the green, 
white and blue ribbon from the War of Independence, but so do many 
men of our age. I noticed he had a crushed and broken nose, obviously 
from way back. This guy bothered me for some reason. He looked 
familiar, but for a long time I couldn't place him, and I got the 
impression he felt the same way about me. I saw him looking at me 
kind of funny. Then through one of those weird coincidences in life, we 
recognized one another, almost simultaneously. I remembered where 
I'd seen him before, and I could tell by the expression on his face that 
he remembered where he'd met me. It was almost forty years ago, in an 
interrogation room at the Bremerton FATPO barracks. I was the one 
who had given him his broken nose, this horrible defacing scar he'd had 
to live with for the rest of his life. I did it when I smashed him in the 
face with a rifle butt during one of Major Woodrow Coleman's famous 
interrogations. There I was, confronted with my sin in the living flesh. 
What the hell could I do?" 

"What did you do?" asked Hennie Nel. 

"I did the only thing that was morally possible," said McBride in 
a dead voice. "I walked up to that man, whose name I still don't know, 
and I simply said, I was wrong. We were all wrong. I did wrong, to you 
and to others. All I can say to you is that as God is my witness, I am 
truly sorry for the pain I have brought into your life." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"And what did he say?" asked Nel, fascinated. 

"You know what the man replied? He shook his head and said, 
'I'm not sorry. When you bastards arrested me I was innocent in every 
sense of the word. Being spirited away to a secret location and tortured 
by the United States was something that happened to foreigners, to 
dark-skinned Muslims, not good old white boys with their baseball caps 
on backwards like me. To this day I don't know who ratted me out, who 
accused me of being involved, whether it was done for malice or money 
or whether it was a simple mistake. But whoever called you and told 
you I was a Jerry Reb had it wrong. I wasn't. Until that morning you 
came for me, I never had a political or a racial thought in my head. I 
had nothing to do with the rebellion, I thought I hated racism, I 
thought I loved diversity, the gorgeous mosaic and all that happy horse 
shit. I thought I was a good American. You showed me that I didn't 
want to be an American any more. I wanted to be a man instead, a 
white man. When that nigger major finally decided that his underlings 
had blundered, he dismissed me with contempt as just some little 
pissant white boy not worth bothering with. Then you let me go. You 
threw me out the door, broken and bleeding. I crawled away, and after 
the wounds in my body were healed I knew I had to heal the wounds in 
my spirit. So I joined the Northwest Volunteer Army and I fought for 
the rest of the war on the side of my people and our new nation. You 
destroyed my innocence, you destroyed the extended childhood we 
used to have back in those days. But in exchange, you gave me more 
important things. You made me grow up. You gave me something I 
never had, dignity and pride, pride in myself and pride in my race. For 
that, sir, I will be forever grateful to you." 

"Then what happened?" asked Sergeant Nel, fascinated. 

"We had nothing more to say to one another, so I walked away," 
said McBride. 

"Getting back to the Ravenhill incident, you may recall that at 
one stage, the Federals claimed that they had located the Column 
through satellite surveillance. What makes you so certain they didn't? 
What makes you certain that the Olympic Flying Column was betrayed 
by an informer?" asked Don. "You said you were there?" 



H. A. Covington 

"I was there when a phone call came," said McBride. "Our Rapid 
Reaction company was put on standby at about six that evening. 
Nothing specific, we just hung out in the hangars by the chopper pads 
in our full kit, all our weapons and with live ammo issued, ready to roll 
at a moment's notice. We twiddled our thumbs, smoked our dope, and 
waited. There was no briefing beforehand like there was normally when 
we were going after a specific target, a search and destroy or a sweep to 
arrest all white males between ages fifteen and fifty in a given town for 
deportation to Nevada... hell, you know the kind of things we used to 
do, I'm sure. When we were out for a specific purpose that had come 
down through the normal channels, there was a set procedure and that 
wasn't followed. I was scheduled to take over as Officer of the Day at 
midnight that night, so at twelve I went to the Charge of Quarters room 
to relieve Captain Hernandez. I found Major Coleman there, and he 
was sober, which was unusual for him at that time of night. He kept 
pacing around, looking at his watch, going outside for a smoke and 
then coming back in, nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof. It was pretty 
obvious that Coleman was waiting for something." 

"Did you ask the kaffir what he was waiting for?" queried Nel. 

"No," answered McBride, shaking his head. "Major Coleman 
had a history with uppity white boys like me in his command. Asking 
questions was considered to be insubordination, and from that it was 
one step to an accusation of racism or hatecrime and finding yourself 
on the wrong side of the wire in one of the camps. We all learned very 
quickly just to keep our mouths shut, do what we were told and cash 
our paychecks. About two o'clock in the morning, I*m sitting behind 
the CQ desk and Coleman is pacing the floor when all of a sudden his 
cell phone rings. His personal phone. Not the CQ phone, not the direct- 
line secure fax from Centcom DHS. nothing on any of our computers. 
No official communication from our own people, which is the way the 
information would have arrived if we had picked it up from satellite 
surveillance or through regular military intelligence. I always had the 
impression that this was something Coleman was working personally, 
possibly without even the knowledge of Centcom. Anyway, Coleman 
goes into his office and talks for a couple of minutes, really low. I 
couldn't understand anything that was said. Then he comes out and 



The Hill of the Ravens 

tells me to call the pad and tell them to fire up the choppers. When we 
get to the hangar Coleman calls the officers and senior NCOs around, 
pulls out a map he or somebody had hand-sketched on a sheet of paper 
from a yellow legal pad, and he described to us how we would set the 
ambush, with particular attention to the placement of the Claymore 
anti-personnel mines up along the hill. I'll tell you something, Colonel... 
this was not a spontaneous thing. Someone had scouted that terrain at 
Ravenhill Ranch beforehand, and I am damned if I think it was 
Coleman. Monkey Meat simply wasn't that intelligent. Someone 
wanted that whole unit wiped out and was going to make damned sure 
it happened. Someone who knew what the hell he was doing as a 
guerrilla and counterinsurgency officer, and believe me, that wasn't 
Major Woodrow Coleman." 

"One of your own people?" asked Redmond. "Then why would 
he let Coleman take the credit for a coup like bringing down Tom 
Murdock and Melanie Young?" 

"I have no idea on earth, sir," replied McBride. "Coleman told us 
it should go down about dawn, and so we would have the rising sun at 
our backs. We were to be on the lookout for a ten year-old OD green 
Dodge pickup. That was the NVA forward scout vehicle, the one that 
always preceded any major troop movement of Volunteers by 
motorized transport." 

"Did Coleman give you any idea that he knew who would be in 
the forward scout?" asked Redmond. He had a deeply personal reason 
for asking. 

"You mean was the informer in that vehicle? I couldn't say. If 
Coleman knew who was in it he didn't tell us," replied McBride, shaking 
his head. "He just said we were to let that vehicle pass, which was a 
pretty standard thing if we wanted to catch the main body of the 
enemy... I mean the NVA, pardon me. The whole point of having a 
forward scout was to detect or to trip any ambushes. We wanted to 
make sure we didn't give ourselves away. When we got back to base I 
learned that the two men in the scout truck had heard the shooting, got 
out of their vehicle, flanked us, and inflicted a couple of casualties on us 
before they skedaddled." 



H. A. Covington 

"That is correct," agreed Redmond, remembering the only time 
he had spoken about Ravenhill with Bill Vitale after the fifth tankard 
one summer night some years before, out on the deck behind his house. 
Vitale had been one of the men in the scout truck. Vitale had broken 
down wept in drunken agony when he spoke of his dead friends and 
comrades, something that by common consent neither of them had 
ever mentioned again. "Go on, please." 

"After the green Dodge pickup passed, we were to slide a mine 
out into the road using a Bangalore torpedo and wait for a main convoy 
of three vehicles, two vans, one blue and one white, and one Kenworth 
truck with slatted sides containing a large number of personnel. 
Whichever vehicle was in the lead, we were to blow it and stop the 
convoy, then give the occupants everything we had. Complete free fire 
zone, no quarter, no surrender to be accepted." 

"So the informer wasn't with the main convoy?" conjectured 
Nel. 

"Either that, or the informer was there and for some reason 
Coleman wanted to make sure he or she never made it." said McBride. 

"Why the hell would even a kaffir do that?" asked Nel. 

"Most likely he didn't want to share the reward. Tom Murdock 
had a one million dollar price on his head," McBride reminded him. 
"The others had bounties on them as well, starting with two hundred 
grand for Melanie Young. You have to remember that FATPO worked 
under the Department of Homeland Security, and that the rules that 
applied to normal Federal agents or police officers didn't apply to us. 
We operated on what was euphemistically referred to as a performance 
bonus system. It was a fancy name used to conceal the fact that we were 
more or less bounty hunters and mercenaries. When we were able to 
kill or capture the more well-known NVA people the unit involved 
shared the DHS reward, with the CO getting the lion's share, of course. 
Coleman was quite capable of having his own informant whacked 
simply so he wouldn't have to split the score. And maybe collect the 
reward for the informant as well." 

"I hope to hell that's not what happened, because if so then we 
may never know the truth," said Redmond grimly. "You said you had 
something special to tell me. What was that?" 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Yeah. I have no idea at all whether or not it means anything, 
but it's the one thing I ever held back from that day at Ravenhill. That's 
why I'm glad you boys came by this morning. It's time I got this off my 
chest. Hang on a minute," the old man told them. I need to go upstairs 
and get something. You boys help yourselves to another beer out of the 
fridge; I may have to rummage around a bit." When McBride returned 
after a few minutes, he had a small manila envelope in his hand, and he 
dumped an object from the envelope into his palm. "You know that 
Coleman stole the gold crucifix from Melanie Young's dead body," 
McBride said. "He later sold it to a Jewish tabloid television show host 
who gave him some really obscene price for it." 

"Yes, I know," said Redmond. "The Republic traded two 
American spies facing execution back to the Washington government in 
order to get that crucifix back, but only once the blood on the cross was 
DNA tested and matched against Melanie's FBI records to make sure 
the bastards weren't scamming us. Our own True Cross." "None more 
true," said Nel. 

"None indeed," agreed Redmond. "That small gold cross and 
chain is now in a sealed case on display in the Hall of Heroes." 

McBride spoke. "I didn't know then how much the new nation 
would come to value that little gold cross, but I saw that revolting 
primate wrench it off that dead girl's neck, and I decided I didn't want 
Murdock's body to be similarly defiled. When we got back to base camp 
in Bremerton, I was the officer in charge of stripping Tom Murdock's 
remains down in the morgue, bagging his clothes and personal effects, 
photographing his corpse, fingerprinting and taking DNA samples, e- 
documenting everything, so forth and so on. I believe Coleman gave me 
the job as a little bit of added humiliation. I took something from 
Murdock's body. It was on a leather thong around his neck that had 
been severed by a bullet, but instead of falling onto the ground it was 
actually stuck to the back of Murdock's shirt in his own blood, which is 
why Coleman didn't grab this as well. Here it is." 

Redmond took the small object of simple pewter into his hand. 
"It's Mjolnir ! A Thor's Hammer!" he whispered in excited awe. 

"You mean Tom Murdock was an Old Believer?" demanded Nel. 



H. A. Covington 

"Yes," replied McBride. "I didn't know what it meant then, I 
thought it was just some kind of biker jewelry or something, but I knew 
that it was something special for him. I felt absolutely foul about what 
we had done, and so I decided to keep this one thing out of the hands of 
his enemies. It wasn't a souvenir, it was... it was my way of apologizing 
to him, of keeping back something of his from his killers. Can you 
understand?" 

"Why the hell did you never say anything about this before?" 
demanded Redmond. 

"Well, to begin with, at the time it didn't seem like a good idea 
to admit to my new comrades in the Northwest Volunteer Army that I 
had robbed the dead body of one of our greatest fallen heroes," said 
McBride. "Being a defector I was on thin enough ice as things were. 
Later on, it just didn't seem relevant. I'm still not certain that it has any 
relevance to what happened to the Column. Like everybody else, I 
bought the Trudy Greiner story. I figured she sold her own people out 
for the shekels. Who knows? Maybe she did after all. God knows, it 
happened often enough back then. Maybe this hammer means nothing 
at all. I knew from overhearing Coleman's conversation on the phone 
that night that there was an informer. Ever since then everyone said 
that Greiner did it for money, and I have seen the problems that this 
religious divide among our people has produced in the Republic's 
society. Why should I add to those problems by revealing that the great 
warrior and commander Tom Murdock was really a follower of the 
Aesir and was getting it on out of wedlock with a woman whom 
Christians regard as our own Saint Joan of Arc? I owed Corby Morgan a 
big one, because when we came to him and told him we wanted to 
defect he believed us, and he didn't put a bullet in our heads and bury 
us out in the woods." 

"How widespread was the knowledge that Tom Murdock was an 
Old Believer?" asked Redmond urgently. 

"You got me, Colonel. You'll recall that I was on the other side 
when Murdock was commanding the Column. I got some of the 
intelligence briefings, and I do recall that even then the FBI and 
Homeland Security were trying to exploit religious divisions within the 
racially conscious community in the Northwest, but I don't recall any 



The Hill of the Ravens 

specific mention of Murdock's religious affiliation. If the Feds knew, it 
never trickled down to my level. As to what I have picked up since then, 
well, I've heard a couple of remarks down through the years that would 
indicate to me that Murdock's religious views were known in the NVA. 
How widespread that knowledge was, I have no idea at all." 

"One last thing, Mr. McBride. I notice that you don't wear the 
War of Independence ribbon yourself?" asked Redmond. 

"Of course not!" replied McBride, in a puzzled voice. "Why 
would I? On 10/22 I wear the Missoula Salient medal and the 
Operation Strikeout campaign decoration with the Chilliwack bar 
because I earned them as a soldier in the NDF, wearing the uniform of 
the Republic. But nothing from the NVA time, and I never go to 
reunions or Old Fighters' functions. How could I? I fought against the 
Republic and was responsible for the death and torture of Volunteers. 
I've done what I could to make up for that, but for me to wear the 
ribbon would be an insult to the memory of those who died because of 
me. An insult to the living survivors as well, like that man I told you 
about in the park in Bremerton, whom I mutilated for life when I 
obeyed the orders of a monkey. Suppose I were to meet him at a 
reunion? What should I do then? Buy him a beer and toast the old 
days? I don't deserve that decoration in the same sense that men like 
you do. Please give me credit for some sense of dignity and propriety, 
Colonel!" 

"According to your service records, you were there with the 
NDF Second Army when we went into Portland to implement the 
provisions of the Longview Treaty?" asked Redmond. 

"Yes, I was. So what? So were thousands of others." 

"The Battle of the Bridges?" pressed Don. 

"I believe that's what it is called nowadays, yes," admitted 
McBride carelessly. "I don't recall it as a battle, just an especially nasty 
day in the life." 

"In the official military history of the NVA/NDF the Battle of 
the Portland Bridges is considered to be one of the most important 
engagements in the War of Independence. The enemy sought to deny 
the Second Army entry into Portland and we had to bop our way in. By 
NDF regulations, anyone who participated in that fight in any capacity 



H. A. Covington 

is entitled to wear the green, white and blue ribbon," said Redmond. "It 
was the first time since 1945 that white soldiers faced down the ZOG 
bastards on equal terms, in the open, face to face, man to man, gun to 
gun, artillery to artillery, tank to tank and whupped their kosher asses 
up one side and down the other. Tell me, are you not the same 
Volunteer Arthur McBride who ran forward onto the northbound 
Interstate 205 bridge over the Columbia River out of Portland, and 
disarmed the explosive charges that the U. S. Army Rangers had 
planted there?" asked Don. "Along with Volunteer Brooke Arnold? 
Under heavy fire from the enemy?" 

"Yeah. So?" responded McBride with a shrug. "That was a long 
time ago, just one incident in a thousand. Most of the Ranger fire was 
directed against the southbound lanes where the charges were 
disarmed by Volunteers Steve Carter, Eric Muegge, and Rick Nesti, all 
of whom won very well-deserved Iron Crosses. All Brooke and I caught 
over in the northbound lanes were a couple of potshots." 

"She caught a rather bad one, if I correctly recall from your 
service file. Did you not drag Volunteer Arnold to safety after she was 
hit, and then return to complete your mission, in the process shooting 
and killing with a pistol two Rangers who attempted to prevent you?" 

"Yes. Why do you ask?" asked McBride curiously. "I haven't 
thought about that incident for years. What does it have to do with... ?" 

"Last night my wife and I attended the Old Fighters" Reunion in 
Olympia," said Redmond sternly. "We didn't see you. and that's 
unfortunate, because you had every right to be there, and every year 
our numbers grow fewer. It's your decision, but I hope we'll see you 
there next year. You may consider that a personal invitation. We have a 
very good medical service in the Republic. We especially pride 
ourselves on our geriatric care. That means you have some years left to 
you. During that time, Sergeant-Major McBride. I would appreciate it if 
you would wear your War of Independence ribbon openly upon your 
person. You earned it, and you need to let those young people coming 
up in our nation know that. You have set a very good example thus far. 
Set a better one. Wear your ribbon. And wear your Iron Cross. The one 
you won by your heroism on that Portland bridge. I read Volunteer 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Arnold's report this morning before coming to see you, by way of 
background information." 

"Then you didn't read it right," said McBride quietly. "I earned 
nothing. It was all her. What you didn't read was that chubby little 
blonde girl had more courage in her little finger than I ever had in my 
whole body, on the best day of my life. After Ravenhill I ended up with 
Commandant Archie McLean down in Oregon. From the moment I saw 
Brooke lying in an ambush outside Medford, big floppy hat on her head 
and her golden hair in a braid down behind, an AK-47 in her hands and 
longing to give any nigger or Mexican who crossed her path a heavy 
dose of Shock and Awe, my past was dead. She was my life from that 
point on. I low-crawled up to her in that ambush position, my rifle in 
my arms, and I looked into those icy blue eyes and I said, "I'm Art 
McBride. Are you married or with anybody?' She said no. Then I said 
'Tell me what I have to do for you to be my wife.' She said "Kill as many 
of them as you can, never rat no matter what they do to you, and never 
lie to me." I said 'You got it. Can we consider ourselves engaged?" She 
looked at me and said 

'Yeah. Now get back to your position. Fattie's coming." I started 
to crawl back and then I looked over my shoulder and asked her 
'What's your name?' 'Brooke,' she said. Then it all started anew for me. 
I wasn't fighting for any of you any more, I wasn't fighting to redeem 
myself or my past. I was fighting for her. Fighting to be worthy of her. I 
would have done anything, anything at all, to be worthy of her. You 
wouldn't understand." 

"You'd be surprised," replied Redmond. "With me it was an 
eleven year-old girl with braces and pigtails. I was twelve years old 
myself, and I would have gone up against Godzilla with nothing but a 
rusty steak knife in my hand for one of her smiles. Her Godzilla was the 
United States government, and from the moment I first saw her... " 

"Yeah. It was like that. If it hadn't been for Brooke I would have 
run like a bunny off that bridge," said McBride, nodding with a small 
smile. 

"What happened to Comrade Arnold after the war?" asked Nel 
curiously. 



H. A. Covington 

"Through some incomprehensible grace of God that I never 
deserved, she kept her word and I married her. And for that I damned 
sure earned an Iron Cross! God, Brooke was a world class bitch! I loved 
her, she loved me, we both knew it, and we spent our lives rending one 
another's entrails with unutterable joy. I fought a long and bitter war so 
that I could spend the next thirty years wrestling an alligator, 
gentlemen, and I would not trade you one single moment of it, for any 
consideration." 

"Children?" asked Redmond. 

"Six, five living. Our eldest son Jason opted to do his national 
service in the Kriegsmarine, and he went down on the Corvallis during 
the Chinese attack off Juneau. The other five are alive and well, thank 
God, and they load me up with all the rug rats I can handle every 
weekend." 

"Your wife died two year ago, I believe?" asked Redmond 
quietly. 

"Yes. She was out in the garden weeding a flower bed and she 
moved wrong, pulled on something too hard, and a weak spot in her 
aorta from that American bullet that none of the doctors ever detected 
tore and flooded her heart with blood. I found her, too late. She died in 
my arms. I'm marking time now, until death reunites us. She was the 
last combat casualty from the revolution, you might say. Will there be 
anything else, gentlemen?" asked Arthur McBride. 

"No, sir. You have been of great assistance." 

"So now we yet another motive for the betrayal of the Olympic 
Flying Column besides mere money and treason or unrequited love," 
said Nel, shaking his head in bemusement as they got back into their 
unmarked aircar. "Religious bigotry. Lekker!" 

"Yes, so it would seem" agreed Redmond, his voice grim and a 
scowl on his lips. "We also have a potential disaster worse than any 
other conceivable on our hands. Betrayal for money or by a Federal spy 
we could handle. That happened all the time. It is sordid but 
historically acceptable. The romance angle with Murdock, Melanie and 
Trudy adds a Gothic but interesting and politically harmless possibility. 

But if it turns out that the Flying Column was betrayed because 
some tub-thumping Christian couldn't handle the fact that the Party's 



The Hill of the Ravens 

greatest hero was an Odinist, then it could finally ignite a full-scale 
battle between the umpteen factions here in the Republic, all of whom 
demand that their own beliefs be formally recognized as our official 
state religion. That is the one thing that could lose us everything that 
we have gained since the revolution. Jesus Christ on a raft, now I hope 
that it was Trudy and that she did sell us out for money, or else because 
she got dumped by Tom Murdock!" 



The Boys of the Old Brigade 



The Boys of the Old Brigade 



"Oh father, why are you so sad on this October morn? 
When Aryan men stand proud and glad in the land that we call Home? 

a 

"Son, I'm just remembering that far-off fateful day, 

When I was just a kid like you, and joined the NVA! 

Where are those men who stood with me when history was made? 

In memory I always see the Boys of the Old Brigade!" 



H. A. Covington 



VI. 



"So now what? We go on a historical fishing expedition?" said 
Hennie Nel as their aircar landed on outskirts of the great sprawling 
naval complex on the west side of the Puget Sound that was the 
Kriegsmarine's Bremerton Naval Station. 

"Yes, although I'm not exactly sure what fish we ought to be 
baiting our hook for," replied Redmond thoughtfully. "God, this has the 
makings of an unholy mess! Let's discover the truth first if we can, 
Sarge, then once we have it we can sit back and figure out just what the 
hell to do with it. Our next step is to interview the eight known 
survivors of the Olympic Flying Column. This is going to be a sensitive 
process, Nel. Our goal has to be to find out why each one of them 
survived. In other words, why the hell were all eight of these people 
somewhere else so didn't ride into the ambush at Ravenhill Ranch with 
the rest of the Column?" 

"My first question would be why the two men in the green 
bakkie that was being used as the Column's scout car survived," 
ruminated Nel. "I don't entirely buy McBride's explanation that they 
were let go on Federal SOP. If Fattie was out for the reward, why not 
the reward for two more of us terrorists? And how did they know that 
Murdock himself or Melanie Young weren't in the scout vehicle?" 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Redmond winced. "As it happens. Sarge, I know a little bit 
about that aspect," he said quietly. "Bill Vitale was one of the men in 
the scout vehicle. He is an old friend of our family, and he talked about 
that with me. He and Volunteer Lars Frierson heard the shooting that 
came from behind them, and they realized that they had been let slide 
and the main force had been ambushed. They turned their vehicle 
around, went back a ways, de-bussed and approached on foot. They ran 
into a FATPO outpost and killed two of them, they realized from the 
sound that there were hundreds of Federals between them and the 
Column and that they could never make it through alive and rejoin 
Murdock. They then followed General Order Number Eight and 
performed E & E to their respective hideouts." 

"General Order Number Eight?" asked Nel. 

Redmond smiled. "Otherwise known as the Swamp Fox Order, 
as in he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day. 
Unofficially known as Feets Don't Fail Me Now! Even more unofficially 
known as the Don't Be A Dead Hero. You Dumb-Ass! directive. The Old 
Man knew that the life of every Volunteer was worth more than a 
hundred dead Feds, and the purpose of that General Order was to make 
sure that our most precious resource was not sacrificed needlessly. 
Some American and Jewish propagandists called us cowards then and 
still do because of that order." 

"That's crap, sir," said Nel with a scowl. "The objective of the 
soldier is to win wars, not conveniently hurl themselves to destruction 
on an enemy's sword. And cowards don't revolt in arms against a tyrant 
to begin with." 

"I know. I like old George Patton's version," responded 
Redmond with a chuckle. "No one ever won a war by dying for his 
country. You win it by making the other bastard die for his country. Oh, 
I don't deny we had a few who really showed yellow and used that order 
as an excuse for genuine cowardice. We always spotted that, and they 
didn't last. But I know a lot of vets who followed that order in the spirit 
it was meant to be followed, and who never forgave themselves for it. 
Bill Vitale is one of them." 



H. A. Covington 

"What technique should we use in interviewing these survivors, 
sir?" asked Nel, tactfully changing the subject. 

"Nothing fancy," replied Redmond. "A little deceptive candor 
might go a long way for us here. It will be hard for us to make up any 
plausible explanation as to why we are exhuming old bones, especially 
old bones as hallowed as those of the Olympic Flying Column. I think 
the best approach would be to simply tell these people the truth, that 
we've received a communication we believe to be from Trudy Greiner 
and that she is Coming Home. Be interesting to see how they react to 
the news. And also, we need to see if we can find out just how each of 
them got into the NVA in the first place, how they became racial 
nationalists or National Socialists or whatever their particular world 
view is. Back in the old days, when you joined the Party you had to sit 
down and compose a minimum 10,000 word essay on just that subject, 
giving as much detail as possible. The reasoning behind that 
requirement was that no one could tell a lie that long and complicated 
without saying something that would trip him up." 

"Which one of the eight survivors of the Column do we speak 
with first. Colonel?" asked Nel, looking over the files on Redmond's 
desk. "You mentioned Admiral David Leach, I know, but why him?" 

"I think we should start with the one who poses the most 
potential danger to the safety of the Republic if it turns out he's a long 
dormant traitor." said Redmond. 

"Wouldn't that be Doctor Cord?" queried Nel. "He is after all the 
de facto head of the Republic's space program." 

"Mmmm, maybe. Although if Cord is a long term ZOG spy 
intent on sabotaging our space program, he doesn't seem to be doing a 
very good job of it. We are the only nation on earth who even has a real 
space program, thanks to him. No one else is even on the moon 
permanently, never mind Mars. My vote for that sinister distinction of 
most potentially dangerous if disloyal would be Leach of the 
Kriegsmarine. Also known as Bloody Dave from his guerrilla days with 
the NVA." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"That name rings a bell, and not just for being an admiral," said 
Nel thoughtfully. 

"It should," said Redmond grimly. "David Leach is the hero of 
the Spokane incident in Wellington, New Zealand. He faced down an 
entire country with one battle cruiser and got our sailor boys back out 
of the local hoosegow. That might have been a little before your time, 
when you were still in South Africa. Leach damned near started a war, 
with the United Nations jumping up and down and going booga booga 
booga all over the place, but Leach got his men back, and he 
demonstrated for all the world to see that you don't fuck with the 
Northwest Republic. That was my last year in the Special Service before 
I transferred to BOSS. Thanks to Leach's nautical brinkmanship I spent 
a wonderful two weeks in the snow out on the Montana border, looking 
down the barrels of our .88s at eight thousand Chinese regulars and a 
good thirty thousand more-or-less American troops across the line, 
wondering when they'd get the order to attack." 

"How many were you, sir?" 

"One division, about 4500 men, so we had them outnumbered," 
replied Redmond. "Turned out that once again Doc Cord's plasma 
beam weapons saved the day. The Americans couldn't bomb our 
positions without losing eighty percent of their aircraft and their pilots 
in the first wave, and when push came to shove they didn't dare meet 
us face to face. Since Vietnam, they've never dared to meet anyone face 
to face, man to man, on the ground. Without their air cover we would 
have butchered them, and they knew it. You might say the Spokane 
affair was the Northwest Republic's true entrance onto the 
international stage. The reason I consider Admiral Leach the most 
politically sensitive of the survivors is that Bill Vitale is a field 
commander, but Leach sits on the General Staff and he's privy to the 
Republic's most top secret defense intelligence. He is also in charge of 
creating a new series of warships for the Kriegsmarine. one that will 
give our country a global reach, some kind of super battleship or 
carrier. If we can get these things afloat it may eventually mean one day 
we can start recovering countries like South Africa and Rhodesia and 



H. A. Covington 

Australia for our people. If one of the Olympic Flying Column survivors 
is bent, then David Leach is in the position to do the most damage." 

"How did the Admiral acquire the name of Bloody Dave?" asked 
Nel. 

"After Ravenhill Leach went a bit nuts, or maybe he was nuts all 
along and Ravenhill just sparked it off. Leach disobeyed orders and 
unilaterally selected his own next assignment. He went east on his own 
to join that maniac O. C. Oglevy's crew in Idaho," recounted Redmond. 
"Nothing succeeds like success, and so the Party overlooked his 
insubordination. Later on Leach was a commandant himself, 
during the last year of the war, leader of the Ellensburg Flying 
Column. I think they gave it to him as part of a quiet effort to 
break up Oglevy's gang prior to independence and make sure we 
didn't have any Ernst Rohm kind of incidents. The commandants 
of each mobile partisan unit operated with complete tactical 
freedom and independence of action. Leach was one of our best, 
and I have to say probably our cruelest after Oglevy himself. To 
be fair, we were fighting the cruelest of foes, an enemy who was 
trying to destroy our entire race. Leach returned the favor, with 
interest. He literally ran the Americans out of his sector by brute 
force. Toward the end, FATPO and even the U. S. Marines 
refused direct orders to go into the Ellensburg district, they were 
so afraid of Bloody Davey Leach. He also ran out or slaughtered 
every single individual of any race who couldn't show blood in 
the face." 

"Blood in the face? So Leach is Christian Identity?" asked 
Nel. 

"No, he's a National Socialist." replied Redmond with 
pride and satisfaction. "It's hard to believe now, when our whole 
structure of society is based on the Third Reich and when army 
officers and SS applicants have to pass courses in National 
Socialist ideology, but there was a long and disgraceful period 
after Commander Rockwell's murder when the American 
National Socialist movement descended into pure slapstick 



The Hill of the Ravens 

comedy. The Old Man was NS himself, as I am sure you know, 
and he tried to do what he could to restore some sense of honor, 
dignity, and purpose to National Socialism in this country, but 
he once described it as trying to paint the Sistine Chapel with a 
troop of monkeys let loose in the building. To give him his due, 
Leach and those NS comrades like him went far towards 
restoring our ferocious don't-fuck-with-the-Fiihrer's-boys 
reputation. The world learned to fear us again, as it should. 
Leach never took prisoners and he dealt with the local loyalists 
in what was then called a proactive manner. Proactive as hell. 
Chain saws and propane torches, mostly. All those red white and 
blue Masonic dishrags disappeared from the front porches, and 
that neck of the woods around Ellensburg got real disloyal, real 
quick, I can assure you." Don paused, almost as if hesitant to add 
something. "Leach was also in charge of Force 101 during the Cleanup." 

"Force 101?" asked Nel. 

"They were responsible for enforcing the Offenses Against The 
Race Act," said Redmond, "specifically Article Nine. Odd I should be 
speaking with Leach today. My daughter was asking me about that just 
last night." 

"The hangmen," said Nel bluntly. 

"Yes. They were the troops who executed over seventy thousand 
people in the course of a single year, mostly white people who were 
proven to a moral certainty to have been sexually involved with blacks 
or other non- whites." 

"Moral certainty?" asked Nel. "Not legal certainty?" 

"What law? There was no time, there were no courts, and hell 
was loose on earth," sighed Matt. "That's why even today we still have 
people petitioning the Party for investigations, trying to clear grandma 
or some other relative who danced Danny Deever from a lamp post 
when Force 101 came through town. Yeah, there were some mistakes 
made, and the Party has paid some pretty hefty compensation 
settlements and a lot of scholarships to descendants. But mostly, we got 
it right. Whether they were with us or not, the whole community in the 
Northwest secretly loathed race-mixing. All white people do, deep 



H. A. Covington 

down. Few were denounced without cause. There was a time when you 
couldn't go outside in any middling sized town in the Northwest 
without seeing a corpse or two dangling from the nearest tree or lamp- 
post. Some white men swinging alongside their Asian or Filipino 
whores, but mostly it was white women and their... beasts of pleasure. 
Sorry, the very thought of that particular crime makes me want to 
vomit. That law is still in force, you know, as well it should be from now 
until such time as the Imperium truly arrives. It all comes out 
eventually. Some of those wretched women stayed on after Longview, 
God knows why. Did they think people would just forget? Someone 
always remembers and eventually someone always tells. Just last week 
a fifty-nine year-old grandmother was hanged in Pullman. Her own son 
found some old photos in the family attic his mom had been stupid 
enough to keep, photos of her canoodling with her Chinese boyfriend 
from high school. The man was NS and he denounced his mother. He 
did absolutely right, and I thank God that I am not he." 

Nel nodded. "That was long before my time, but I understand 
why such things had to be. There has to be a racial line that no one 
crosses, not ever. Because when you cross it then everyone loses 
everything. Maybe if we had been a little more strict on the old 
Immorality Act under apartheid, I'd still be in Germiston now. Poofters 
swung as well?" 

"No," said Redmond. They pulled up to the gate of the naval 
base, identified themselves to the sentry, and were directed to an office 
building about a quarter mile down on the left. "Homosexuality was 
considered to be so shameful, as indeed it is, that society should not 
even acknowledge it in death," continued Redmond. "It wasn't done in 
public. The few faggots and dykes that were too stupid to flee when they 
saw what was coming... they simply became no more, and where 
possible every documentary and tangible trace of their very existence 
was erased. You know, sergeant, that even today there are no actual 
laws on the books in the Republic against that perversion? It is 
classified as a form of mental illness, which it is." 

"It is blasphemy," replied Nel with a frown. "Such creatures 
should be stoned as the Bible says. It is the man or the woman saying I 



The Hill of the Ravens 

know better than God who made me how my body should be used. I 
can overrule God if I want to." 

"Yes, from the Biblical viewpoint it is certainly blasphemous, 
but faggots really are crazy as hell," said Redmond, shaking his head. 

"You've had full medicals before, in the army and when you 
joined the force, right? You've had a prostate examination?" 

"Don't remind me," said Nel with a scowl. 

"Yeah, I know. Having things jammed up your ass hurts, but a 
homosexual actually enjoys that kind of filthy pain and degradation. 
That's mental illness in my book. On the very rare occasions when we 
come across it in the Republic, the people involved are quickly certified 
as insane and confined in a mental institution, where they are either 
cured through intensive therapy or if that does not prove possible, then 
their minds are laser-erased and they start over. Believe me, when that 
happens, in one sense they're just as dead as if they had been stoned." 

"But stoning would be so much more fun!" protested Nel. 

"I think you and Bloody Dave will get along fine." chuckled 
Redmond. He parked the car. "We're here. Let's go." 



The two security cops met with Bloody Davey Leach in the 
technical wing at the bustling Bremerton Naval Yard. From the window 
of his office Don looked out and saw a row of long, lean atomic- 
powered U-boats in the slips, while another of the gray shapes was 
cutting through the blue waters of the Sound, heading out on patrol. 
Admiral Leach was a brawny scowling man in his sixties, with a grizzled 
sailor's beard of reddish-white. One could easily imagine Leach 
standing behind the wheel of a clipper ship braving a nor'easter or 
rounding the Horn, and maybe ordering the odd keelhauling. The chest 
of his blue Kriegsmarine uniform gleamed with a dozen decorations. 

He was in his office poring over the plans for the Floating 
Fortress N. R. S. Bismarck. "The plasma weapons are the big thing." he 
explained, rolling up the blueprints. "Since the First World War, no 
navy on earth has ever really been able to find a counter to the 



H. A. Covington 

submersible, or a viable defense against air attack other than 
surrounding the vessel with a screen of other aircraft. Surface ships 
have been reduced either to carriers, missile launching platforms, or 
transports. We're working on an integrated, computerized particle- 
beam interception system that will knock out any torpedo or missile 
fired from below and bring down anything in the air, up to and 
including satellites and space stations. In a few years, gentlemen, the 
Kriegsmarine will sail the oceans of the world as the only seaborne 
military force since 1914 with a reasonable expectation of immunity 
from underwater attack or aerial assault. The other world powers will 
eventually develop similar systems. Who knows? Combined with a 
plasma particle-beam air defense weapons system, we could be seeing 
the rebirth of the battleship as an effective weapon of war. That also 
means that we can effectively move division-sized troop contingents 
overseas without having to rely on costly and vulnerable air transport. 
The old twentieth century idea was that air power alone would do it all. 
The Americans had a string of squalid little victories against greatly 
undermatched opponents toward the end of the century through mass 
bombing, and that seemed to confirm the theory. Well, since the 
invention of the particle beam, air power is broken and sea power is 
coming back into its own." Leach gestured towards a sofa against one 
wall; the two BOSS men sat down while he leaned against one of the 
draftsmen's tables. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about? 
Found a spy here?" The old man grinned. "You won't have to work him 
over. Just threaten to leave him in a room alone with me for five 
minutes, and he'll tell you anything you want to know. I ain't done a 
man in nice and slow in a long time." 

"I'd like to talk about the Olympic Flying Column," said Don 
bluntly. "I'd like to talk about Ravenhill Ranch. I'd like to talk about 
why you weren't there when Murdock and the rest of them got it." 

"Why wasn't I with the Column?" snarled Leach. "I'll tell you 
why! I wasn't there because Tom Murdock put me on baby-sitting duty 
with Holy Joe Cord at the aid station. The same man who invented 
these plasma weapons that have made our survival as a nation possible, 
so I'm glad I didn't strangle him with my own two hands, as often as I 



The Hill of the Ravens 

was tempted to do so! Commandant Murdock ordered me to secure the 
temporary medic position in Poulsbo to take care of any wounded we 
might have after the attack in Port Orchard. Trudy Greiner was 
supposed to be there as well, driving one of our vans. She was to act as 
a nurse if necessary and also to provide onward transportation for any 
of the wounded. She never showed up, and later we found out why." 

"You believe Trudy Greiner didn't arrive at the aid station 
because she was the informer who betrayed the Column?" asked 
Redmond. 

"You don't know your history very well, do you, son?" snapped 
Leach. "Where the hell have you been for the past thirty years? Yes, 
that's why the bitch didn't show up. She had a million bucks burning a 
hole in her pocket and she had other things to do. You know where I 
was when my brothers and sisters and comrades died, Colonel? I was 
listening to Holy Joe babble on about the saving grace of Jesus fucking 
Christ while we laid out scalpels, latex surgical gloves and IVs, and cat 
gut to sew people up and morphine syringes to stop them from 
screaming while we tried to save their lives in the back storeroom of a 
goddamned Burger Boy! We had a little portable TV, we had it on CNN, 
and in the cheery light of first morning we heard that they were all 
dead! We packed up our gear, I got into my car and Cord got into his, 
and we ran like hell! We were so upset we didn't even take any of those 
cute little packets of ketchup they used to give out at those joints! Now 
why the hell are you asking me this after all these years? I don't think 
this Jaapie kid was even born then!" 

"Some rather serious questions have arisen regarding the events 
of that time, Admiral," said Redmond evenly. 

"What questions?" demanded Leach. 

"Admiral, I have been ordered by the State President to find out 
exactly what happened at Ravenhill Ranch and why," said Redmond. "I 
am sorry to take up your time, but I intend to do just that. To find out 
what happened." 

"If you do, will you do me a favor and tell me?" said Leach, 
suddenly seeming to shrink, turning his head away. "I always... that 



H. A. Covington 

business about Trudy Greiner... it just never seemed right to me, 
Redmond." 

"Not right in what way, sir?" 

"I just never could understand how she could do... what they 
said she did. Dammit all, I just never figured her for a rat!" he cried out, 
a lifetime of agony and frustration in his voice. "I'd give anything if... " 

"If what, sir?" asked Redmond. 

"If I could die knowing she didn't betray us," sighed Leach. "I 
was... somewhat in love with her. I have always had this idea in my 
mind that the whole story never came out there. It was something I 
wanted to believe, you understand. It just... didn't seem right to me." 

"Then maybe it's time it was made right," suggested Redmond. 
"You may even get to ask her about it yourself." 

"What?" demanded Leach, astounded. 

"She's Coming Home," said Redmond. "On October 22 nd . 
Independence Day. Trudy Greiner is going to walk across the border 
crossing at Mountain Gate, or so she tells us." 

"Well I'll be... what exactly do you want to know?" asked Leach 
keenly. 

"We'd like to get some background first," said Redmond. "We'd 
like to know how you got involved in white racial nationalist activity in 
the first place, how you ended up in the NVA. Just take it from the top." 

"Grew up in Pensacola, and from the time I was a boy I always 
wanted to go to sea," recounted Leach. "My father was a retired full 
commander in the United States Navy. For him the only three real 
things, the only absolutes in the whole universe were God, my mother, 
and the Navy, not necessarily in that order. He had me clawing canvas 
and tying sheepshanks and double hitches on our boat when I was five. 
I joined at seventeen and after basic at the Great Lakes Training Center 
I was assigned to the missile frigate Higby in the Persian Gulf. Every 
now and then we used to pop off a Cruise or two at Tehran or Riyadh 
whoever we were told to hit by whichever Bush or Clinton or other 
empty suit was in Oval Office at the time. We didn't care. We were the 
living spearheads of the Great American Petroleum Empire and proud 



The Hill of the Ravens 

of it. We kept hoping for orders to nuke Mecca and really rattle the 
ragheads' cage. Ironic, isn't it? I might have ended up as one of the 
Republic's worst enemies if the bastards had just had the sense enough 
to leave me the hell alone. Afterward I spent the rest of my life 
endeavoring to demonstrate to the government of the United States 
that they'd fucked with the wrong man. Think I've made my point?" 

"I think they're beginning to get a glimmer, Admiral," replied 
Redmond with a smile. "How, exactly, did they fuck with you? That's 
not just an official question, it's personal with me as well. Every man of 
your generation has his story. I am always fascinated to hear those 
stories. What happened?" 

"Yeah, you're right," agreed Leach. "Every man of my 
generation has his story, some incident that turned him from an 
American back into a white man. Okay, since you don't mind spending 
government time spinning yarns, neither do I. This story is mine. 

"Like I said, we were on patrol the Persian Gulf. Then we got a 
re-fitting and R & R order, the kind all sailors love. Off patrol we went 
and into some exotic port. The exotic port in question for the Higby 
was a place called Eilat, a resort town on the Red Sea, in what was then 
the state of Israel before the original owners took back that particular 
piece of real estate, may Allah bless and keep them for their immortal 
courage that shamed us all. I was just turned nineteen years old, young 
and strong, full of piss and vinegar, and with several months' pay 
burning a hole in my pocket. Me and some buddies of mine were on 
shore leave and we were cruising the beach looking to pick up some of 
those long, lean Jew girls with the tanned legs and the arrogant 
Levantine faces who lounged there like coiled snakes. We'd all heard 
what great fucks they were and how willing they were to do their duty 
for international concord with us American allies. I used to get a 
chuckle out of that when I was ram-rodding Force 101. The one time in 
my life I myself ever tried to race-mix, Destiny slapped me down, 
slapped me down hard! One of life's ironies. 

"We heard a noise," recalled Leach, his eyes starting to wander 
back into the past. "We came across some Israeli police who were 
underneath a pier beating a little Arab kid, maybe twelve years old. I 



H. A. Covington 

never did learn why, but they were really working this little guy over, 
three of the bastards. Big burly men with black curly hair and hook 
noses and blue-shaven chins and bulging muscles. Beating the boy, 
beating him and beating him, in the head and the face and the ribs with 
nightsticks, with fists and boots, kicking him in the balls while he rolled 
on the sand screaming. I didn't speak a word of Arabic, but somehow I 
understood that the boy was screaming curses at them, not begging for 
mercy. It was the look in the kid's eyes. That impressed me, more than 
anything. It was the first time I ever saw anyone stand up to the Jews. I 
saw a young boy shouting defiance in the face of death, and it moved 
me to my very soul. Non-white or not, I've always had a hell of a lot of 
time for Palestinians since then. Yeah, they're brown, but by the living 
Allah who made them, they are a brave and noble breed! Somehow I 
knew what I wanted then. I wanted to see that same look in the face of a 
young white boy. I wanted to see a young man of my own race display 
that kind of courage. 

"My buddies tried to pull me away, told me not to interfere, it 
was the Jews' country and none of our business. Sorry, man, but when 
three thugs are beating a child to death, no matter where I am and no 
matter what his race, that's my business. I was a pretty hefty dude in 
my younger days and I waded into them. Racked 'em, jacked 'em, and 
knocked their kosher asses into eclipse. That's when I learned that 
whenever they're faced with any real opposition and they don't have 
overwhelming odds on their sides, Jews are cowards. The much- 
vaunted Israelis weren't anywhere near as tough as they were cracked 
up to be, not when they came up against a single man who wasn't afraid 
of them. There were three of them, big mean men, and if they'd had any 
real spirit at all they would have kicked my ass bad, but I kicked theirs. 
I got a nightstick away from one of them and I laid all three of those 
filthy kikes out on the sand, streaming blood from their goddamned 
hose noses and bawling like babies. The Palestinian kid ran off. No idea 
whatever became of him. 

"Well, when I got back to the ship that night all hell broke loose. 
Needless to say, I was immediately ratted out by one of my own so- 
called buddies. Back in those days white men used to inform on one 



The Hill of the Ravens 

another to ZOG so quick it would make your head spin. No racial pride 
at all, no sense of honor or integrity or self-esteem. The Marines were 
waiting for me, they placed me under arrest, and from then on my life 
was one long nightmare. I had one stroke of luck, in that once my 
captain had heard my side of the story and the Israelis' side, he refused 
to hand me over to them and he even refused an order from the 
Pentagon to do so. That was before the Diversity Law went into effect. 
A couple of years later there were no more white male captains, just 
white male execs to actually sail the vessel, and I wouldn't have stood a 
chance. Captain Barlow was a real sailor, though, and he stood up for 
me as far as he could. He kept me from being lynched. If I'd been 
turned over to Israel I wouldn't be standing here today. But Barlow had 
no choice. He threw me in the brig and I was court-martialed for 
hatecrime and 'manifestation of bigotry' as it was called in the Uniform 
Code of Military Justice back then. In my case it was more serious than 
usual, because the bigotry I allegedly manifested was anti-Semitism, 
and that was always worse than any other, except maybe saying nigger. 

"I was dishonorably discharged from the U. S. Navy, to my 
father's bewilderment and disgrace, and I did a year in the brig in 
Portsmouth. After I got out my father disowned me. He never cared 
what the circumstances were. All he could see was that big glaring DD. 
The United States Navy was always right. Period, end of story. I tried to 
get a merchant seaman's card, hell, I would have sailed on a Liberian 
tramp steamer if I could just have gone back to sea, but it was no soap. 
I couldn't get a berth on a garbage scow on the Hudson River with that 
DD and anti-Semite on my record. Couldn't get any job at all except 
flipping burgers or pushing broom. So I figured if I was gonna do the 
time, I might as well do the crime. I decided to become a frigging anti- 
Semite. 

"I went to the library and I started reading about the Jews. 
There were computers in the public library in Pensacola, and in those 
days there were still a few web sites available that told the truth, 
operating on servers out of Singapore and such. I was able to read 
Henry Ford's The International Jew online. I was also able to find a 
site that had Commander Rockwell's White Power on it. If the library 



H. A. Covington 

had caught me printing it I would have been arrested for hatecrime, so 
I sent it chapter by chapter to a printer at a private mailbox service run 
by Chinese. They either couldn't read it or else didn't they give a damn 
so long as my money was good. I stopped by after work and paid out 
most of my salary from the day labor agency for those precious printed 
pages. I read that book over and over and over again, and I became a 
National Socialist. To this day I collect copies of White Power. At home 
I've got over a hundred editions in twelve languages. From that day to 
this I have never wavered in my knowledge that Hitler was right and 
that just about every evil on earth today stems from our rejection of the 
man from Germany and his message to all of us. All of a sudden I 
understood why the world was the way it was. And then one day, by 
accident, I came across a web site that had some of the Old Man's stuff 
on Northwest Migration. It made sense to me, this idea that all of us 
who knew about the Jews should band together to grab at least a little 
piece of the pie back from them. I worked the day labor agencies in 
Pensacola and St. Pete for a year or so until I saved up a few bucks, and 
then I took the bus to Seattle. I took any job I could on the water, on the 
piers, and I eventually made a contact who hooked me up with the 
NVA." 

"Where you acquired the nickname of Bloody Dave." remarked 
Redmond. 

"Yeah, I was the guy my commandant of the moment called on 
when there was some really nasty wet work to be done," growled Leach. 
"I was mad, Redmond. I admit it. Mad in the British sense, raving 
insane. Mad and mean at what had been done to me by the United 
States. I lived on rage and hatred. I grew up on stories of John Paul 
Jones and Perry and Farragut, Midway and the Coral Sea. I wanted 
nothing more in the world than to sail the seas wearing the same 
uniform my father wore, and then they did that to me, all because I 
wouldn't stand by and see a child beaten to death by cowards. It's really 
weird they charged me with hatecrime. Because it was that year in the 
brig that gave me hate, Redmond, a hate that it took me years to get 
under control. Sometimes it gets to me even now." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Like when you were in command of the Spokane and you 
shelled Wellington, New Zealand to get seven of your men back?" asked 
Redmond dryly. 

"They laid hands on my boys," said Leach quietly. "I, of all 
people, know what it means to be in that situation. Barlow could only 
go so far for me, but when a man is under my command I go all the way 
for him. Nobody lays hands on my boys. Not ever." The he grinned. 
"Well, nobody except me, anyways." 

"After Ravenhill you went east, I believe?" asked Don. "In fact, I 
am told you went east contrary to orders from the Party. They told you 
to report to Commandant McLean in Medford, yet your records 
indicate that you spent the rest of the war with the Hayden Lake Flying 
Column until you were given your command at Ellensburg." 

"You mean did I ride with O. C. Oglevy?" laughed Leach. 
"Damned straight I did! I mean rode with him, literally! We used to 
move around on chopped Harleys and armored assault vehicles like 
Mad Max the Road Warrior, like Genghis fucking Khan! Vikings on 
wheels. Closest thing I could find to sailing on land. We had an 
armored eighteen-wheeler we called Big Mama, with everything on 
board up to twenty-mil cannons! None of that escape and evasion shit 
for O. C, no sir! We didn't escape and evade ZOG, ZOG tried to escape 
and evade us. We went after everything we could find wearing a United 
States uniform. We hit, and we hit, and we hit!" said Leach, punching 
his fist into his palm for emphasis. "And when we got the bastards 
down we kicked them and kicked them and kicked them! Then we 
poured gasoline on them and set them on fire watched them burn and 
roll and scream. They sent helicopter gunships after us, and we opened 
up with Big Mama and we shredded them into confetti, metal and flesh 
and blood drifting down on us like snow. We brought others down with 
laser-sighted .50-cals firing armor-piercing bullets we made ourselves. 
They sent tanks, and we dug holes and buried nitrate fertilizer bombs 
and blew those tanks fifty feet into the air! 

They sent the Rangers, and we charged them like madmen and 
got in close and whipped them down into jelly. I remember a guy 
named Tiny Knowlton. Dumb as a bag of hammers, but six feet ten and 



H. A. Covington 

all muscle. Tiny didn't even carry a rifle. He had a red all-metal fire axe 
he found at one of the forest ranger stations out in the woods. He 
decorated it with leather grips and wrote weird stuff on it, kissed it and 
slept with it. He named that axe, you know." 

"Yes, sir," said Redmond. "As a matter of fact, I do know. He 
named it What Goes Around Comes Around. Something to do with his 
time in Soledad prison, I don't recall exactly, if even we ever knew. 
What Goes Around Comes Around now hangs in the Hall of Heroes in 
Olympia, alongside Comrade Walter Knowlton's two Iron Crosses." 

"And so it should. Funny, you know. I could never get used to 
referring to him as Walter. Tiny was so strong he could bust open a 
Bakelite helmet with a single blow like it was a watermelon. The best 
times were when we dealt with the loyalists, those pieces of shit who 
dared to put an American flag on their porch or open their filthy yaps 
against us. Some fucking red white and blue asshole out in some little 
town in Idaho ran his mouth about evil racism and we heard about it, 
O. C. and the boys would roll in with Born to Be Wild blaring on our 
speakers, and believe me, we never had any trouble out of those places 
again. Because in most cases they don't even exist. We burned them to 
the ground and if we could find salt, we sowed it into the ground as a 
kind of ritual so nothing ever would grow there again. You were on 
about my moniker of Bloody Dave? That was where I got it, and I 
earned it." 

"Yes, sir, so I've heard. Getting back to Ravenhill, you were at 
the meeting which took place at the Hoodsport safe house the night 
before the planned attack on the Special Criminal Court in Port 
Orchard?" 

"That's right, although not all of it." Leach told them. "Me and a 
number of the other guys. Pretty much the whole Column was there, 
out in the woods behind the house and watching the road coming and 
going, weapons ready. I remember hearing Murdock mention he wasn't 
too comfortable having all our people in one spot like that, but it was 
necessary." 

"Why necessary? Did he say?" asked Redmond. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Not in my hearing. It wasn't usual, though. The Column 
usually moved in on a target in at least two groups, more often three. 
Murdock would command one section and Melanie Young or one of the 
sergeants would command the others." 

"But when the witcommando was ambushed at Ravenhill, it 
was almost all of you except for a few who were detached for separate 
duties," pointed out Nel. "For example, we know that only four 
Volunteers were sent to collect and bring in the lorry with the home- 
made mortar tubes on it. That seems an odd level of exposure for so 
important a weapon. Do you have any idea why that might have been, 
meneer? " 

"Not a clue," said Leach in a sour voice, shaking his head. "I 
wasn't an officer of any kind at that time, just a grunt Volunteer. I did 
what I was told. I was called into the conference in the living room of 
the safe house by Commandant Murdock to get my assignment, oh, it 
must have been about one in the morning. I didn't say much, nothing to 
say, really. Cord and Trudy Greiner were already there, and we had a 
few words about aid station procedure. Nothing unusual. The two of 
them gave Commandant Murdock a rundown of the available medical 
supplies we had on hand, what vehicles they said they'd be using, so 
forth and so on. Greiner told Cord and the Commandant she'd be at the 
aid station at seven sharp. She said she'd let herself into the storeroom. 
Apparently at some point before I came in, she had been given a set of 
keys to the Burger Boy. The manager was one of us, like I said." 

"Meet you there? She wasn't going to accompany Volunteer 
Cord and you to the station?" asked Redmond keenly. 

"That's what I just said, isn't it?" growled Leach. 

"Any idea where she was going, why she separated from the rest 
of the Column?" 

"None." Leach replied. "I always assumed that she wangled 
some assignment from Murdock to give her an excuse to cut out on us 
and get away and then rat us out, but whatever it was, nothing was said 
in my presence. Like I told you, I was just an AB in those days. They 
told me to stick with Cord and make sure he and Greiner were able to 
do what they could for any wounded that showed up without any 



H. A. Covington 

interruption. If Fattie came down on us I did the shooting while they 
did the packing up and running, if they could. Hey, they were both 
more valuable ratings in the crew than I was, and I understood that I 
was more expendable. It didn't bother me. I got my orders, then I left to 
rack in for a few hours in a bedroll out back in the woods, before me 
and Joe Cord moved out in separate vehicles for Poulsbo on our part of 
the mission. He followed me. That was the last time I saw the Greiner 
woman, when I left that house at one thirty or so in the morning." 

"We have been reliably informed that the FATPO commander 
Coleman got the call from the informant at a little after two A. M.," said 
Redmond thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his knee. "You didn't 
see Trudy Greiner leave?" 

"No, I did not," said Leach. 

"You said Trudy Greiner was supposed to be driving one of the 
NVA vans as a makeshift ambulance. Was she given the van then?" 

"Mmmm... well, like I said, I didn't see her go but I did see her 
arrive, in a car. Seems to me it was a Toyota or some Japanese car. 
Why?" asked Leach. 

"No real reason," sighed Redmond. "I'm just trawling through 
the waters of the past, Admiral, trying to see what comes up in my net. 
For example, I would like to learn whether or not it was common 
knowledge that Tom Murdock was an Odinist, a follower of the Old 
Gods of Norse mythology as many of our fellow citizens in the Republic 
are. Did you know this? And if so, did this create any friction?" 

"News to me," said Leach, to all appearances genuinely 
surprised. "Not that I ever gave a damn. I always thought this whole 
religion thing was a canard, a distraction. That's what always bugged 
me about people like Joe Cord, and what bugs me about people like 
that even today. Religion isn't important. Race is important. Not to 
knock our Christian comrades, and I know that the Christian Identity 
people are some of our best citizens, not to mention our best soldiers. 
Always were. God knows I've commanded enough of them. But I've 
always had this little bugbear in the back of my mind about 
Christianity. There's Jesus and then there's Jeeee-zus. I've always had 
this suspicion that if and when the chips come down, Christians will 



The Hill of the Ravens 

choose Jeeee-zus over their race. You remember what the Old Man said 
about it." 

"Yes, I remember," said Redmond. "Although actually it was 
Commander Rockwell who said it originally. Christianity has one great 
weakness, and that is that it is a community of faith rather than of 
blood, and a Christian may be tempted to choose a monkoid who 
believes in Jeeee-zus over a white man who doesn't. Which defect the 
Christian Identity faith answers quite neatly, in my opinion." 

"Does any of this sound to you like she didn't do it?" demanded 
Leach. 

"Admiral, I'm not sure that at this remove in time it's going to 
be possible to determine just what the hell happened," sighed 
Redmond. "There is something else I need to ask you about. 
Statistically, something like twenty per cent of the Volunteers of the 
NVA were female, and every NVA unit or cell had its relationships, 
ranging from Christian marriages to outright gang-bang promiscuity, 
and everything in between. It has been suggested to us that Trudy 
Greiner was involved with Tom Murdock before he and Melanie Young, 
er, became an item, so to speak." 

"Yeah, she was," agreed Leach. "It wasn't something anybody 
ever got up and announced over the campfire, but you usually had a 
pretty good idea which female comrades were giving it to whom. You're 
wearing the ribbon, you ought to know." 

"I was a bit young to pick up on such things," said Redmond. 

"Yeah. Murdock broke it off with Trudy when he and Mel 
started getting it on. You're not the first to suggest that might have 
been part of Trude's motive in doing what she did." 

"Was there ever any open bad blood or emotional tension 
between the three of them, any obvious lover's triangle type aggro?" 
asked Redmond. 

"Mmmm... not that I recall. Not that I saw or heard," replied 
Leach judiciously, absently scratching his bearded chin. "But I repeat, 
Colonel, at that time I was just a lowly gunner's mate. I wasn't too often 
in a position to see or hear things like that. Sorry, that's all I can tell 

you." 



H. A. Covington 

"Thank you, sir," said Redmond. He rose to go and Nel stood up 
with him. "You have been very helpful." 

"Why do all the older people in the Republic swear like that?" 
asked Nel with a scowl as they left the building. 

"Most of them don't even notice they're doing it. They grew up 
around niggers and a lot of niggerism rubbed off on them. Fifty years 
ago, that was the American dialect. You'll get eighty year-old NVA vets 
who call one another dude and dawg and ask whuzzup? The older 
people who grew up in the United States are a lot raunchier about sex 
as well. We're probably the only nation on earth where grandmothers 
shock and scandalize their granddaughters at the dinner table. I think 
that's one of the reasons the Ministry of Culture is trying to get 
everybody back into Victorian days dress-wise. Hopefully the old mores 
will revive along with Picadilly weepers and high lace necklines." 

"Sounds like this Oglevy was a bit of a nutter," remarked Nel. 

"Yes, but he was our nutter." agreed Redmond. "As much as I 
despise Oglevy and that part of our past, I have to admit that we owe 
the son of a bitch a lot. You know that right after Longview. before 
Oglevy was killed, a dissident faction of the Feds refused to release the 
Old Man from Florence Federal prison in Colorado? John Corbett and 
Pat Brennan got on the horn to the Colorado military governor. They 
told him they were sending a plane down, and it had damned well 
better come back to Olympia with the Old Man on board, because if it 
didn't the next guy they sent down to collect him would be O. C. Oglevy. 
They handed the Old Man over when our people pulled up to the prison 
gate." 

"Who's next on our list?" asked Nel. 

"One of the good things about working for BOSS is you get to 
meet all kinds of interesting people. Ever rousted a Cabinet minister 
before, Hennie? Frank Palmieri. Let's grab a bite of lunch and back 
down to Oly, to the Ministry of Transport." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Redmond and Nel were expected at the Ministry offices on Fifth 
Street, and they were shown up to the sanctum sanctorum of the 
department on the third floor. Transportation Minister Frank Palmieri 
was a stocky, jocose man in a simple shirt and cravat, with a fringe of 
white hair around his balding head, muscular white-hairy arms and a 
generous paunch. He looked like an avuncular grandfather. He shook 
their hands warmly. "Always glad to cooperate with BOSS," said the 
technocrat. "Have a seat, gentlemen." 

"It is an honor to meet you. Minister. Your accomplishments for 
the Republic are well known," said Redmond. 

"Not just mine, Colonel. They are the accomplishments of an 
entire nation that refuses to be beaten down!" said Palmieri proudly 
and sincerely. "For over a generation the Americans and the whole 
damned outside world besides have tried to strangle us. A year after the 
Longview treaty Chelsea Clinton boasted that in another year all us evil 
old racists would be eating tree bark and walking or riding in ox 
wagons, they'd clamp the sanctions down so tight. Instead we have 
perfected the alcohol engine, the electric engine, and for heavy work the 
methane engine. Haven't imported a drop of oil into the Northwest 
American Republic for a decade now! No need to. We run our whole 
economy on pig shit. In spite of every economic sanction the Americans 
and the rest of the world have imposed on us, we now have the greatest 
public transportation system in the world. Every town in the Republic 
over 40,000 people has a light rail system of some description for five 
pence a ride, and in every major city there are subways, tramcars and 
crosstown copter shuttle. Our highways are solid and capacious while 
traffic jams are a thing of the past. If you don't feel like flying over it in 
an aircar, you can drive down Old I-5 in an electric vehicle at ninety 
miles an hour with your car on cruise control and autopilot, sit back 
and conduct a conversation with a passenger in the car in the next lane 
beside you, without raising your voice. We get delegations of engineers 
and urban planners every year who come to study the Seattle and 
Portland and Boise subways." 



H. A. Covington 

"Of course, it helps when white people can ride public 
transportation without being robbed, raped, and murdered by mud- 
colored criminals," pointed out Redmond. 

"Yes. That was always the biggest problem with public 
transportation in the States, back in the old days. The Americans solved 
that problem after the revolution by forcibly relocating most of their 
rural white population into the metroplexes, outlawing almost all 
private automobiles and forcing people onto overcrowded petroleum- 
burning trains and buses like cattle. I always considered that a feather 
in our cap, that we were able to get white people to give up their cars on 
most occasions and ride on buses and trains and planes and copters 
and packet boats, voluntarily and enthusiastically. The Americans had 
to use force. The environmental damage done by concentrated 
petroleum exhaust fumes was known as early as the 1950s, yet white 
people clung to their pollution-spewing automobiles because they were 
terrified to set foot on a bus. That, and the idiots destroyed their own 
railroad system at the behest of the big oil conglomerates who wanted 
all those monstrous diesel-burning semis on the roads. Our own 
railroads carry over ninety percent of the freight in the Republic. No 
more of those 18-wheel behemoths that have destroyed every highway 
in the United States. Northwest Air Service has hundreds of flights 
every day and we haven't had a fatality in twenty-one years now. You 
name me two places, a beginning and an end. anywhere from a single 
apartment in Seattle to the most remote mountain reaches of 
Wyoming. Give me a few minutes on my com. and I will quote you a 
fare that within twelve hours max will put you within a hundred feet of 
that destination. Okay, maybe a few hundred feet where Wyoming is 
concerned." 

"Is that a Wyoming joke, Mr. Secretary?" asked Redmond 
tiredly. 

"Hardly," said Palmieri with a grin. "Seeing as how I'm from 
Wyoming myself. I grew up as the only Italian kid in that godforsaken 
place called Laramie." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"I'm sorry, sir, and no. that wasn't a Wyoming joke. Wyoming is 
one of the most beautiful parts of our Homeland, and I would like to 
point out that I and family take our vacation there regularly... " 

Palmieri laughed. "So some of your best friends are from 
Wyoming? Look, Colonel, don't sweat it. Every country on earth has its 
own little internal minorities they make jokes about. Kerrymen among 
the Irish, Georgians among the Russians, whatever. That's jake with us. 
That big sky we live under back home more than makes up for any 
unkindness from our fellow white folks. We know we got something 
they ain't got, and it's worth a few jokes. If my job didn't keep me here 
I'd be back in Jackson Hole tomorrow. Now what can I do for you?" 

"Sir, Sergeant Nel and I are conducting a rather strange 
investigation, and I am going to have to go about this in a rather 
roundabout way. Please bear with me; this may take some time." 

"Sure." said Palmieri, puzzled. 

"This has to do with things that occurred many years ago. 
Before we get into that, I'd like to get some personal background, 
please, Minister." said Redmond. "Background on yourself. How you 
got involved with the revolution? This isn't just official. I have to admit 
that this is a hobby of mine, learning how the men and women of your 
generation actually made the decision to live for something other than 
their own personal lusts and desires." 

"Jesus, where can I start?" asked Palmieri, puzzled yet willing. 

"Why not start at the beginning" asked Redmond. 

"All the way back to the beginning? All right. My Dad was born 
in New York. He left high school when his own dad, my grandfather, 
dropped dead of a heart attack while laying carpet in some rich Jew's 
condo. My pop was a working man all his life, the ultimate blue-collar 
patriarch. Big man with short black hair and a beer belly, but over that 
belly were equally bulging chest and arm muscles. He had no 
engineering degree, but when it came to building roads and bridges, Sal 
Palmieri told the engineers how it was done. He came out to Wyoming 
with a highway contractor on a summer job that was supposed to last 
three months. He thought it was the total pits. 



H. A. Covington 

"Then he met a girl named Gina Yates. My mom. All of a sudden 
Wyoming was the only place on earth he ever wanted to be. Dad settled 
down in Laramie. He was a Federal employee, ironically enough, 
although that didn't save us from It Takes A Village when the time 
came. Mom was a born-again fundamentalist, and Dad converted to 
her church and got baptized before she'd marry him. Officially, anyway. 
He told me once when I was a kid that he didn't believe a damned word 
of it, and despite that he'd never regretted a day his life with my 
mother. Dad just kind of went along with church and Jesus and all. but 
Mom was a dyed in the wool believer. I don"t mean one of the crabby 
tub-thumping types. My mother was one of the kind of born-againers 
who honestly believed that God is love and Jesus wanted everyone to be 
joyful. We had a big family. I was the second of eight. I didn't realize it 
then, but that already marked us as suspicious in the eyes of the 
authorities. White couples weren't supposed to have a lot of white 
babies, they were supposed to adopt orphaned gooks from Korea or 
whatever. Large families of white kids indicated that someone wasn't 
getting with the program. Fundamentalists are supposed to be big on 
the spare the rod and spoil the child thing, but it wasn't like that. 
Neither Mom nor Dad ever raised a hand against any of us. They didn't 
have to. None of us would have so much as thought about crossing Dad. 
Believe me, that didn't happen. If one of us kids was in a bad mood and 
giving Mom problems, the rest of us would pile on the offender and 
straighten him or her out toot sweet. I had a great childhood, for a 
while there." "What happened?" asked Redmond. 

"Hatecrime happened," recalled Palmieri grimly. "What else, in 
those days? I was ten years old when Federal Child Protective Services 
came for me and for my brothers and sisters. You know that they 
created a whole Federal agency, complete with SWAT teams, whose 
purpose was to take white children out of what they termed unsuitable 
homes. They called it the It Takes A Village program after a book that 
vile bitch Hillary Clinton wrote." 

"Yes, I know. Oddly enough, I was reviewing that bit of our 
history with my daughter just the other evening," said Redmond. "I 



The Hill of the Ravens 

almost was taken myself when I was six. My uncle and aunt had to 
more or less smuggle me Home to the Northwest." 

"Yeah, well, make sure your girl learns that chapter in her 
history book real good," said Palmieri bitterly. "My family was one of 
their first victims. It was just like the 10/22 situation with the Singers, 
but Laramie wasn't Coeur d'Alene. Our neighbors just stood by 
cowering and watched while it happened. So much for the cowboy 
heritage. One of those neighbors was a typical village busybody woman. 
She turned my mother in for the reward. She called the Federal Child 
Protective Services and reported my Mom for teaching us hate and 
giving us homophobic literature to read. I made damned sure the 
hunters tracked the old bag down later. They finally found her in an old 
folks' home in Cincinnati eighteen years ago and cut her throat. They 
sent me a photo. I went back to Laramie for the first time since it 
happened, and I buried that photo between the headstones of my 
mother and father. I go back every year since then, but never before 
that. I couldn't go to my parents' grave empty-handed. You're not 
Italian so you wouldn't understand that." 

"My aunt is Tori Stoppaglia, and I am a long time personal 
friend of Major General William Vitale, so yes. Minister, I would 
understand that. What was the homophobic literature your mother 
allegedly gave you?" asked Redmond. 

"Mom was teaching us in our little Sunday school from a King 
James Bible," said Palmieri. "I didn't know then, but I've made it a 
point to learn some history, and there were some Federal court rulings 
to the effect that the King James version contained homophobia, the 
book of Leviticus and all. You know how they were in those days, all the 
ways those bastards in Washington took away the freedom of white 
people in general and Christians in particular. They created situations 
where you could exist, but you couldn't function. The true Scripture 
wasn't legally banned, oh, no, can't do that under the First 
Amendment. But if you used a King James instead of what they called 
the "inclusive' version of the Scripture, you could be sued in civil court, 
which was immune from what little was left of constitutional 
safeguards. Or you could be hauled up in front of a Human Rights 



H. A. Covington 

Tribunal and you could lose your children to the state based on an 
administrative decree that bypassed the courts and legal system." 

"Yes, the abuse of civil law was one of their favorite and most 
destructive weapons," agreed Don. 'That's one reason why we don't 
have any civil law or lawyers in the Republic, just community 
arbitrators drawn from citizens over the age of fifty who arbitrate 
disputes on the basis of common sense." 

Palmieri nodded wearily. "A bit too late for my brothers and 
sisters and me. Of course, what it really was in practice was a gigantic 
child kidnapping ring, snatching children from white working class 
families or religious homes and giving them to families of rich liberal 
elitists who couldn't or wouldn't have children of their own, or even 
worse, what they called gay couples back in those days. Always white 
kids, of course. Somehow they never seemed to get around to applying 
all these wonderful child protection laws to Mexicans or blacks. One 
night, thirty armed men crept up on our home in the small hours of the 
morning. They shot our dogs with silenced rifles, and then kicked in the 
door of our house. My father didn't even know what was happening. He 
thought we were being attacked by criminals, which we were, of course, 
but trouble was that the criminals had badges. My father grabbed a 
pistol from the nightstand and the soldiers of the United States shot 
him dead. 

"I used to dream of monsters when I was a kid, and that night I 
really did wake up and find a monster beside my bed, a big thing in 
body armor and a gas mask. It pulled me out of bed and down into hell. 
They dragged my mother out into the yard, screaming in her 
nightdress, in twenty-degree weather. They handcuffed her and threw 
her into a police car. I only saw her once again, at the formal hearing 
three months later, but they kept her in a kind of glass booth so she 
couldn't communicate with us and teach us any more hate. The fact 
that they taught me a hate on that night that has never died probably 
escapes them to this day. The judge banged his gavel and they took me 
away, and they took all my brothers and sisters away to different places. 
After years of searching I have been able to find my sister Graziella and 



The Hill of the Ravens 

my brother James and bring them Home. The other five vanished 
forever. God knows where they are now, or even if they are alive. I 
remember my mother's face staring at me through the plexiglass while 
they were dragging me away from the hearing, and then someone 
turned out the light in her booth and I never saw her again. A few days 
later my court-appointed lawyer came and told me that Mom 
committed suicide the day after that piece of shit in the black robe took 
away her legal custody. Then he stood up and closed his briefcase and 
walked out of the room and I never saw him again. Poor Mom. She 
loved everyone and in return those bastards burned her soul alive. 

"I had it rough, but in a smooth kind of way, if you get my 
meaning. The Federal court system placed me, or I should say they sold 
me for the so-called adoption bond to a pair of fruits in Seattle who 
paid two hundred grand for me. So at least I got a free ride Home. If I'd 
been sent to Florida or Chicago it might have turned out different, like 
it did with most of my brothers and sisters. It was a big luxury condo on 
Capitol Hill where they took me one day. Most kids would have rebelled 
outright, but I think maybe my Sicilian peasant heritage came in handy. 
Somehow I understood that there was a time when one had to bow 
down to superior authority, smile in their faces, keep quiet, and wait. 
They have a saying in the old country, you know, about how vengeance 
is the only dish that tastes best when eaten cold. I knew without doubt 
that someday I would have my revenge against the evil people and the 
evil government that murdered my parents. Bruce and Neville were 
good enough to me the first couple of years, and so I kept my mouth 
shut and went with the flow, yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir. Frankie 
Has Two Daddies, you get the idea. They bought me bikes and baseball 
gloves and computer games, and tried to be my pal and all that stuff, 
even talked with me some about the Bible like Mom used to. No King 
James, though. They definitely used the inclusive version." 

"Let me guess," said Redmond. "The story of David and 
Jonathan?" 

"Oh, yeah, they were real big on that particular chapter and 
verse," returned Palmieri with a contemptuous sneer. "Then one night 
the inevitable happened. I think the two of them drew straws to decide 



H. A. Covington 

which of them got to break me in, so to speak. Daddy Nev drew the 
short straw in every sense of the term, for which I imagine Daddy Bruce 
was thankful afterwards. Daddy Nev came into my bedroom and tried it 
on. I was thirteen by then, big for my age, and I knew more about what 
was what than they realized I knew. Along with the baseball mitt they'd 
given me a Louisville slugger. Bad move on their part. I knocked the 
fudge-packing motherfucker flat with the first blow and then while he 
was lying in a daze I locked the bedroom door. Then I went to work 
with the bat. Took my time, nice and slow, aiming every blow so I could 
hear the faggot scream and feel things break, feel them crunch and 
rupture through the wood of the bat. All the time I knew how horrified 
Mom would have been, she who'd loved everybody in Jesus's name and 
always taught meekness and forgiveness. Part of me felt bad about it, 
because of Mom, but that night it was my Dad's Italian blood that came 
out in me. I think my forebears in the South Bronx were watching too 
and cheering me on. Christ, it felt good to finally hit back, to finally 
hurt back after all those years of helplessness! Neville was screaming, 
Bruce was pounding on the door screaming, finally I broke the bat and 
then climbed out the window and beat feet. I learned later it took Nev 
four days in the hospital to die. I lived rough on the streets of Seattle for 
about three months, then the cops picked me up in a sweep. I was tried 
as an adult of course, and they sent me to Walla Walla, life for the 
killing and no parole because of the hate thing. Guess who my first 
cellmate was?" asked Palmieri with a grin. 

"A Northwest settler?" asked Redmond. 

"Yeah. Not just any settler either, either, as great a bunch of 
guys as they all were. It was Winston Wayne!" 

"Ah! CO of the Coeur d'Alene Brigade, then Commandant of the 
Sawtooth Flying Column. So you were one of the Walla Walla Forty- 
Three?" asked Redmond in admiration. 

"Yup. The future Brigadier and me and forty-one other badass 
white men busted out of the strongest prison west of the Mississippi 
and we went into the mountains. Most of us hid out in the Coeur 
d'Alene area. On the morning of October 22 nd , I could actually hear 



The Hill of the Ravens 

the shooting from Gus Singer's place from the safe house I was in. 
Wayne told us to stay put while he stuck a .45 in his belt and went out 
to see what the hell was going on. An hour or so later Wayne comes in 
grinning from ear to ear, tosses me a Heckler and Koch submachine 
gun, and says 'Courtesy of the Idaho State Police, young Francesco! The 
cop I got it off won"t be needing it any more. Gentlemen, lock and load! 
Let's go make ourselves a Homeland!* From then on, as they say, it's all 
in the history books. Look, Redmond, let's cut the crap. You're a senior 
BOSS officer and Corby Morgan's son in-law. You didn't come here just 
to jaw-jack about the old days. What's going on and how can I help?" 

"Actually, sir, I really did come to jaw-jack about the old days," 
said Redmond. "One episode from the old days in particular. It is a fact, 
is it not, that you are one of the eight Volunteers who survived the last 
ambush that wiped out the Olympic Flying Column?" 

"Only because I wasn't there," said Palmieri dismally. "I wasn't 
there!" The older man was silent for a moment. "Jesus, Redmond, why 
the hell did you have to bring that up? That was the worst thing that 
ever happened to me in my life, in a way even worse than what 
happened to my family. Those guys and gals were my family. It was like 
losing Mom and Dad all over again. What could there possibly be for 
you to investigate after all this time? That evil bitch Trudy Greiner sold 
us all out for a million bucks. Redmond, before God I have never raised 
my hand to a woman in my life! That was one of Dad's ironclad rules 
for his boys and I have always obeyed him. Not even during the war. I 
never even shot at a female cop or soldier, at least not on purpose. I'd 
aim away at the last second, if I saw it was a woman. A lot of us would, 
even with those wretched 

American bitches. But that's one woman I've dreamed of killing 
all my life. I wish I had her and that million bucks out at Union Station. 
I'd fire up a locomotive and throw her into the methane furnace alive 
and kicking, and the money after her!" 

"Minister, please understand this. Something has come up, and 
I need to know about that time. I don't mean any insult or insinuation, 
but I have to ask these questions. I need to know where everyone was 
when the ambush at Ravenhill ranch went down, and I need to know 



H. A. Covington 

why they were there. Now, I understand that the original idea was to 
launch a truckborne mortar attack on the ZOG Special Criminal Court 
in Port Orchard, with a view towards disabling the facility and killing as 
many lawyers and other enemy effectives as possible?" 

"Yeah, that was the plan." 

"You did not go with the main column, but you drove the 
flatbed truck with the mortars?" asked Redmond. 

"Yes. Me and Volunteer Saltovic. You may have heard of Drago, 
he's a well known concert pianist now." 

"Yes, Minister, I know. May I ask why you were assigned to that 
particular detail?" 

"I had helped Joe Cord, Drago, and Sergeant Ron Nolan build 
and load the home-made mortars, and I knew how to operate the 
hydraulic elevation press as well as Drago and Ron did." 

"Who actually drove?" asked Redmond. 

"Drago Saltovic was driving. I was on the passenger side in the 
cab. We left the lumberyard in Hoodsport at five thirty or thereabouts. 
The McCanlesses were driving our scout car, a beat-up old Oldsmobile 
that looked like it was on its last legs, but Ed had souped that thing up 
to where it could outrun anything Fattie had short of a helicopter." 

"Only four people with the mortar truck?" asked Redmond 
keenly. "Wouldn't it have been more usual for Murdock to divide the 
Column into two groups, one his and one commanded by Melanie 
Young to escort the mortar truck?" 

"Mmmm, yeah," agreed Palmieri. "Usually we'd move in on an 
operational area in two or three smaller columns, but I think in this 
case the thinking went that too many vehicles together might draw 
attention to the mortars. We wanted to look like we were just delivering 
some PVC pipe to a construction site, and it might look odd if we had a 
small convoy of other vehicles with us. The idea was that if we were 
intercepted, Drago would hit a two-minute timer that would detonate 
the mortars on the back of the truck and obliterate anything within 300 
yards when she blew. Then while that was ticking we'd pile into the 
back seat of the Olds and Ed would burn rubber out of there. Ed was a 
demon driver and I figured we would have had a better than even 



The Hill of the Ravens 

chance of getting clear. If we didn't, there were enough weapons and 
ammo in the car so that we would have taken plenty of those Federal 
pigs with us." 

"How were you planning on getting to the target area in Port 
Orchard?" asked Redmond. 

"We had decided on a kind of roundabout way down into PO," 
Palmieri explained. "Highway 101 South down to Shelton would have 
been the obvious way for us to start out, but then 101 was always full of 
FATPO and army checkpoints and patrols." 

"That's because it was always full of NVA as well," chuckled 
Redmond reminiscently. "The Federals used to call Highway 101 
Ambush Alley." 

"Yeah, and we figured we'd better avoid Ambush Alley," replied 
Palmieri with a nod. "So instead we eased northward along some 
county roads and firebreak roads, then across 101 real quick just south 
of Lillivaup where we slid the truck and the Olds onto an old de- 
commissioned ferryboat that some of our people had come up with 
from somewhere. There was a crew of three men on that thing, never 
knew their names, never saw them before or since, but it took them 
maybe ten minutes by the light of dawn to slip us across that little 
finger of Hood Canal there and get us up onto land again." 

"So there may be other surviving NVA Volunteers who knew 
about the mission and participated in it?" asked Nel excitedly. "These 
three men... " 

"It won't fly, Hennie," said Redmond, shaking his head. "You 
think one of the ferryboat guys might have ratted out? But it wasn't the 
mortar truck that was ambushed. It was the main column." 

"Ach, ties, ja, Colonel, you're right," agreed Nel in 
disappointment. 

"Go on, please, Minister," urged Redmond. "Once the four of 
you and the mortar truck got across Hood Canal, what then?" 

"From there we moved slowly down the cat roads towards 
Bremerton," Palmieri continued. "Finally we came out onto Highway 3 
going right into Port Orchard. That was about seven thirty in the 
morning. The attack was scheduled for nine sharp, right when all the 



H. A. Covington 

bastard lawyers would be coming in so we could take out as many suits 
as possible. We were making good time and we didn't want to get to 
ground zero too soon and call attention to ourselves. We pulled over 
into a small diner just outside Port Orchard, so did the McCanlesses, 
we got out, locked our vehicles, bought a paper from the vending 
machine, walked into the greasy spoon, sat down and had breakfast just 
like we were normal citizens." 

"Christ, how could you eat anything?" asked Nel in wonder. 

"Michael Collins' first rule for life on the run," said Palmieri 
with a smile. "Never act like you're on the run." Palmieri's face sagged 
in sudden terrible memory. "The waitress had just brought breakfast to 
our booth when the television over the counter started blaring the news 
about the column being wiped out at a place called Ravenhill Ranch, 
just north of Shelton. We saw news helicopter shots of the burning 
vehicles. The copters got down real low and used telephoto lenses, and 
we could see the Fatties turning over the bodies of our brothers and 
sisters, kicking them, spitting on them, niggers and Mexicans 
unzipping their flies and pissing on the faces we knew. We were in 
shock. There was a... a man at the counter, I won't ever call him a white 
man, in working clothes with a big red, white and blue flag on his 
baseball cap. He started showing his butt. He was laughing and yelling 
and cackling about how great it was those racist bastards finally got 
theirs, and how none of them really came from Washington anyway 
because everybody knew the Old Man brought all the horrible racists 
into the Northwest from around the world, they gave the Northwest a 
bad name and Northwest people were really loyal Americans... oh, 
Jesus... I wasn't even thinking. Before I knew it I had my gun out and in 
my lap below the table, clicking the safety off. I think we all did. Then 
Brit McCanless, who in those days was the most incredibly fine chunk 
of long-haired, long-legged, witchy womanhood you ever saw, leaned 
over and took me by the wrist. Her hand was tiny but it was like my 
wrist was clamped in a vice grip. I couldn't move it. 'Not now!' she 
whispered. 'We have a mission to complete. Not now, my brother!' 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"So we sat there in that booth, our faces calm and blank, and we 
choked down our omelettes and hash browns and toast and took our 
time finishing our coffee, and none of us vomited in our sheer grief and 
rage. I think that was the hardest thing I ever had to do during the war. 
I don't often have nightmares about that time of my life, gentlemen, but 
when I do, it's never about Walla Walla prison or combat. It's about 
that morning in that diner, and I am stuck there in a kind of time warp, 
stuck there forever, forcing horrible food down my throat with my chest 
and my brain on fire, exerting every nerve in my soul not to scream and 
weep and kill, kill, kill. We finally finished, we got up, Brit paid our 
check at the cash register just like we were ordinary tourists passing 
through, we passed the asshole in the American flag baseball cap with a 
little smile and a nod. and we went outside into the summer morning. 
The jackass with the American flag cap had another big one on the rear 
window of his SUV. All four of us memorized the license number as he 
left. Then we went over by the truck. 'Do we have a secondary target?' 
asked Brittany. That's all she said. Nothing else, and it was the 
absolutely right thing to say. because it reminded us that we were 
soldiers and we had a job to do, and that the time for grief would come 
later. May the Earth Mother bless Brittany McCanless forever for that. 

"Ed says, 'the phone company offices. We take that out we can 
make sure about 200,000 phone subscribers lose service for a bit and 
don't get their bills this month.' Drago says, 'We should try for a police 
station, the big one in Bremerton.' But I wasn't having any. 'No,' I told 
them. 'You saw what they did. You heard them cackling in triumph on 
TV, you heard that motherfucker wearing the Masonic dishrag on his 
head. We have to make sure they die today as well, as many of them as 
possible. We can still take out the courthouse. Dead lawyers! We will 
give the Commandant and Melanie and all the rest of them the best 
tribute of all! Dead lawyers!' I guess you can see I still hadn't quite 
gotten over the court system killing my parents and stealing my family 
and giving me to those faggots." 

"You didn't think of implementing General Order Number 
Eight?" asked Redmond. "Escape and evasion?" 



H. A. Covington 

"The thought of running away never occurred to us," said 
Palmieri, shaking his head. "Anyway, because we would have no 
covering fire, we agreed to use the timing detonator and turn that 
eighteen-wheeler from a mortar transport into a mere common or 
garden variety truck bomb. Drago set the timer down to thirty seconds, 
we drove into Port Orchard and we took out the courthouse. Killed a 
dozen lawyers, two judges, and the blast managed to jam a long shard 
of glass right up a U. S. Attorney's promissory estoppel." Palmieri 
chuckled at the memory. 

"There were four of you when you against at least forty cops, 
FATPOS and U. S. Marshalls," Redmond reminded him. "Yet you 
completed your mission anyway, at extreme risk to your own lives. 
Four Iron Crosses and a victory that took the edge off the massacre of 
the Olympic Flying Column that morning, recovered the NVA's morale, 
and gave us another legend to tell our children." 

"I never thought of it that way. It was just something that had to 
be done. I was usually scared when we went into action, but not that 
morning," said Palmieri. "That morning it wouldn't have mattered if 
there had been four hundred of them. Or four thousand." 

Don decided to throw a grenade. "Did you know Tom Murdock 
was an Odinist?" 

"Yeah, sure," said Palmieri. "We all knew." 

"How did the others feel about that?" asked Redmond. "Joseph 
Cord, for example?" 

"Most of us didn't give a flying fornication. Joe... well, 
everybody called him Holy Joe, and sometimes he got kind of hard to 
take. He almost got his ass whupped over the campfire on more than 
one occasion, but Murdock ran a tight ship. Cord is an asshole, but he 
has this lifelong ability to make himself absolutely indispensable to the 
Aryan cause. After a while, out there in the hills, we all got used to one 
another's eccentricities. War has a way of doing that to men." 

"How about Melanie Young, who is known to have been a 
devout Christian fundamentalist?" pressed Redmond. 

"Oh, she damned sure didn't mind," chuckled Palmieri. "I don't 
think she would have minded if Tom Murdock had been a Persian fire- 



The Hill of the Ravens 

worshipper. He loved her and she loved him. We knew that every time 
we saw them together." 

"Minister, there is something else I need to ask you about," said 
Redmond. "We have heard several stories to the effect that 
Commandant Murdock and Volunteer Greiner were personally 
involved, so to speak, before Murdock began his well known and 
historic affair with Melanie Young. Can you shed any light on that?" 

"Yeah, it was pretty common knowledge within the Column," 
agreed Palmieri. "Murdock broke it off with Trudy within a week after 
Mel arrived from Montana. Hell, we were all lining up the minute Mel 
walked into camp, but Tom jumped right to the head of the line." 

"Rank hath its privileges?" asked Nel. 

"Mmmm, maybe some of that. We all damned near worshipped 
him and it just seemed right he should have her. There was never a 
shred of jealousy of any kind. It's kind of hard for me to explain, but 
that's just how it was. We considered ourselves lucky to have her with 
us. Melanie had been doing underground work in Helena and Billings. 
Basically spying. At the beginning of the war she was employed by the 
Montana State Police as a confidential clerical worker. She was a very 
fundamentalist Christian, as you said, and she was able to get in really 
deep and close by spinning them the tale about how Jesus loves the 
little children, red and yellow black and white, they are precious in His 
sight, all that inclusive version crap. I suppose I shouldn't mock, since 
my own Mom really felt that way. But by convincing them that she was 
a Judaso-Christian instead of a real Christian, Mel was able to deliver 
just about every piece of information Montana had on any of our people 
or operations to the NVA. She was the one who kept Jack Smith of the 
Regulators living as long as he did, from what I hear. Then she 
transferred to the FATPO as a psychological profiler of all us horrible 
racists. She knew psychology, all right. She was that good at pulling the 
wool over their eyes." 

"I remember," agreed Redmond with a nod. 

"And I have seen every movie ever made about her," said Nel. 

Redmond nodded. "Yeah, everybody knows her story. After a 
long run Melanie felt she was finally suspected, and she E & E'd one 



H. A. Covington 

jump ahead of them. When she left she copied every FATPO file she 
could find for us, dumped a computer virus of her own invention into 
the Feds' network that wiped out their servers, and left a handbag with 
eight pounds of ticking C-4 plastic explosive under her desk." 

"She was a hell of a woman!" sighed Palmieri in sad recollection. 

"So she has gone down into history, Minister," said Redmond. 
"Did Trudy Greiner resent being replaced in Tom Murdock's bedroll by 
that hell of a woman?" 

"Trudy was human. I guess she must have," said Palmieri, 
ruminating. "She never showed it, at least nowhere in my presence. So 
far as I am aware she never took up with anyone else for the rest of the 
time she was with the Olympic Flying Column, although I know she had 
some of the guys standing in line and taking numbers for the next 
vacancy, so to speak. Of course, times being what they were, we were 
always pretty frank and open about that kind of thing. Life was too 
short to stand on ceremony." 

"And who were these guys who were standing in the Trudy line 
to take up where Commandant Murdock left off?" asked Redmond. 

"Me, for one," laughed Palmieri. "I got shot down quick. One 
friendly yet definite pass on my part met with an equally friendly yet 
definite refusal." 

"Which you accepted?" asked Nel. 

"Oh, yeah. You better believe it, junior. In the first place, a 
gentleman can always take no for an answer. In the second place, at the 
best of times that kind of personal activity was purely recreational and 
very much on the side for all of us. We had more urgent items on the 
agenda, like securing the existence of our people and a future for White 
children. Our eyes were on the prize. We were fighting a war and we 
needed every hand. You didn't want to lose your head over some chick 
or get her pissed off at you when the next dark night out on Ambush 
Alley your life might depend on her. Finally, pressing unwanted 
attentions on a female Volunteer was never recommended. They were 
quite capable of shooting very important parts off a man," finished 
Palmieri with a grin. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Did anyone else have any better success with her?" asked 
Redmond. "I'm not just fishing for old gossip, Minister. This may well 
be relevant." 

"Mmm, that was a damned long time ago, but... " Palmieri 
hesitated for a bit. "I don't think so. I think Bill Vitale gave her a shot, 
with the same result as me, and I seem to remember maybe Dave Leach 
as well. I*n tell you who some of us had our money on in the 

Trudy Stakes, though... our current State President, the Right 
Honorable John Corbett Morgan." 

"Oh?" asked Redmond, keeping his voice casual. "Why did you 
think John Corbett was in the running? Did you ever see them 
together?" 

"Mmmm, well, nothing quite so definite. Sometimes members 
of the Column would meet Trudy on various supply and recon 
assignments, at safe houses and on fire roads, in motel rooms, 
warehouses, wherever we had to go to do whatever we had to do. 
Depended on how hot we were, whether or not we were cool enough to 
move in among the population without our faces being on every post 
office wall. Sometimes this involved spending several days with Trude 
while we were doing whatever it was we were there to do. After a while 
some of us noticed that she would get regular visits from that weird 
character Morgan used as his gofer even back then." 

"You mean Corey Nash?" asked Redmond, surprised. 

"Yeah," agreed Palmieri. "That was him. Nash was nutty as a 
fruitcake, I always thought, but Morgan trusted him and we all knew 
that he spoke with his master's voice, so to speak. Anyway, word got out 
that Trudy and Nash would disappear for a couple of hours at a time, 
and somehow I just can't see Trudy Greiner having an affair with Nash, 
of all people. Hell, I can't see Nash having an affair, period. To this day 
I run into him sometimes at Longview House on official occasions or 
when I have to meet with the President, and I still think he's non 
compos. God knows why Morgan keeps him around. Anyway, we 
assumed that during these little absences Volunteer Greiner was 
meeting Morgan, either for business or pleasure." Redmond stood up, 
turning over this new information in his mind. 



H. A. Covington 

"I have a question, Meneer Minister. Did you ever track down 
the American who laughed at our dead heroes on the telly?" asked Nel 
with a scowl. 

"Oh, yeah," said Palmieri, stone-faced. "Made a point of it. Little 
Rambos, we used to call 'em. We had his license number and so we got 
his home address from a contact at the DMV. A week later, laughing 
boy got a little visit along about sundown. Me, Drago, Bill Vitale, and 
Bloody Dave Leach. We told Dave what happened and made sure to 
bring him along. He would never have forgiven us if we hadn't." 

"Not the McCanlesses or Volunteers Cord or Frierson?" asked 
Redmond. 

"No," said Palmieri, shaking his head. "Frierson had already 
been ordered south to Number Five Brigade in Eugene, Cord was an 
egghead and a weirded-out religious nut who was never suitable for wet 
work, and the McCanlesses... well, they were too good for it. By that I 
mean they were really, really good folks who fought for the noblest of 
motives and out of the purest of ideals, and we could see that in them. 
Not that they were soft. Far from it. When we hit that courthouse in 
Port Orchard I'll never forget the two of them, her with an AK and him 
with a Ruger Mini-14, cutting the bastards down like a combine cuts 
down corn while Drago and me smashed that truck through the lobby 
and set the timer. But for something like this, we decided we didn't 
want it on their conscience. So we borrowed their Oldsmobile but kind 
of forgot to ask them along, if you get my drift. We found laughing boy 
at home," the Transportation Minister went on with grim satisfaction. 

"We conked him in his garage with a lead pipe while he was 
polishing his goddamned gas-guzzling SUV. We threw him and his red, 
white and blue American flag baseball cap into the trunk of the Olds 
and then we drove him to the diner. There we lined the cooks and 
waitresses and customers up against one wall at gunpoint. Then we 
dragged in laughing boy and tied him to a chair. He wasn't laughing at 
us then, I can tell you. He was blubbering and begging for mercy. I 
guess watching all those John Wayne movies and Rambo flicks didn't 
do him any good at all in the courage department. But then, very few of 



The Hill of the Ravens 

those red, white and blue buffoons were ever anywhere near John 
Waynes or Rambos when it came down to it. 

"Dave Leach took charge. He explained to the people in the 
diner who we were, why we were there, and why laughing boy was 
there. How he had giggled and cackled and cheered and talked John 
Wayne shit while Northwest Volunteers had died for their race and 
their nation. All the while Drago was in the kitchen deep-frying the 
asshole's American flag hat in amongst the fish sticks and the chicken 
nuggets. He brought it over on the end of a broomstick, dripping with 
scalding hot oil, and Dave ordered the son of a bitch tied in the chair to 
eat it. The son of a bitch started bawling and pleading instead, so Dave 
took the other end of the broom. I propped the bastard's mouth open 
with a spoon, and Dave jammed the sizzling hat down his throat, all the 
way into his stomach. That guy made some really incredible noises, 
indescribable. The people watching all this were petrified. I could tell 
by the smell that at least one of them shit in his or her pants. Dave 
walked back into the kitchen and came out with a pot of bubbling 
grease from the deep fryer. 'Don't worry, I got a new hat for you,' he 
tells the guy, and he upends the hot oil all over him and jams the pot 
down on his head. Leach lets laughing boy shimmy and shake and sing 
for another minute or so, then he pulls out his nine and puts a slug in 
his red, white and blue heart. Then he turns to our little audience and 
says to them, 'Folks, the moral to this story is... you never know who's 
listening! Remember that, the next time any of you are tempted to open 
your filthy red, white and blue mouths and talk loud about men and 
women whose shoes you aren't fit to shine. And if any one of you says 
anything to ZOG's dogs about us, you will see us again, and we'll be 
glad to treat you to dinner, just like we did this asshole.' Then we left." 

So did the two BOSS men. 

"Well, that's a twist. You think the Greiner woman was having 
an affair with the State President?" asked Nel curiously as they got back 
into their car outside the Ministry building. 

"I have to admit it's a hell of a lot more likely than her having an 
affair with Corey Nash," admitted Don sourly. "If Palmieri's memory is 
correct about Trudy going off somewhere with Nash for hours at a time, 



H. A. Covington 

she had to be meeting Morgan, or at least doing something NVA- 
related for him." 

"Or personally related?" queried Nel. 

"He told me not," said Redmond. Nel looked away, too 
diplomatic to suggest that the President of the Republic might be lying, 
which Don appreciated. 

"You don't think that by any chance Nash could be the traitor?" 
asked Nel after a while. 

Redmond shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "We don't even 
know if Nash was around when the Port Orchard operation was 
underway. And what in God's name would be his motive? He didn't get 
any million dollars, and as strange a person as he is. I can tell you that 
his loyalty to the revolution is the only thing he's ever had in his life. 
You don't know Nash. I do, for many years, and not only has he not 
ever so much as looked at a woman to my knowledge, but he wouldn't 
even take a piss without John Corbett's knowledge and permission. 
He's kind of like the old family retainers they used to have back in 
Victorian England. Totally dedicated to John C. Always was. Believe 
me, whatever Nash was doing with Trudy Greiner, he was doing it at 
the behest of Corby Morgan." 

"So?" asked Nel. 'That was his duty." 

"So why didn't Morgan tell me about it?" demanded Don 
angrily. 

"You said Morgan did admit that he knew the Greiner woman, 
and that Nash sometimes acted as liaison," protested Nel. 

"Yeah, yeah, he did... in a very vague and offhand way. Almost 
as if he knew I'd dig it up and he knew he had to at least mention it or it 
would really look funny. But I don't like the way this is beginning to 
shape up. Let's move on. Next up on our list is former Volunteer Lars 
Frierson." In a few minutes Redmond had dropped down into an air 
lane four hundred feet above old Interstate Five and put the aircar on 
autopilot. "I'll go back to manual for the interchange at Portland. I 
actually prefer a ground car for going up the Columbia River. Less 
traffic on the ground nowadays, but we need to save time." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Why him next?" asked Nel. 

"The survivors were in three places. Two at the aid station, four 
with the mortar truck, and two in the scout car just ahead of the 
column. We've talked to people who were in the first two categories. 
Now I want to speak to someone who was in the green pickup." It also 
puts off the necessity for me to grill Bill Vitale, he thought sadly. And 
the necessity for me to question the President of the Northwest 
American Republic. 



H. A. Covington 



Vn. 



In towns and farms, the call to arms was heard by one and all. 

From every land they came to stand, and answer freedom's call! 

'Twas long ago we faced the foe, the Old Brigade and me! 

And by my side they fought and died, that white men might be free! 

Where are the men who stood with me when history was made? 

How longingly I want to see the Boys of the Old Brigade! 

The two BOSS men landed at the local airport, since The Dalles 
had no municipal air lanes on its power grid, and from there they drove 
by street into the picturesque hillside town. Gordon Kahl High School 
stood in imposing red brick on a spacious campus, perched 
commandingly over the broad expanse of the Columbia River and the 
Tom Watson dam and hydroelectric plant. A long flight of wide wooden 
steps led down to the riverside. Where Redmond glanced over he could 
see some docks, some small boats, some prefabricated buildings and a 
Kriegsmarine pennant. A number of young men were doing some kind 
of boat drill down along one wooden quay: Redmond recalled that 
Gordon Kahl High prided itself in their corps of naval cadets. The two 
cops left their car in the parking lot and wandered into the school 
looking for Lars Frierson. 

In the hall just outside the principal's office, Don glanced over 
the bulletin board and saw a large pink pastel flyer posted from the 



H. A. Covington 

school's guidance counselor. "SENIOR GIRLS— Is The Marriage Track 
Right For You?" it read. "Under the new Family Enhancement Act 
passed by Parliament in January, you can now earn C-l citizenship on 
marriage and a promotion to two-vote B category on the birth of your 
first child! Representatives from the Ministry of Labor's Home 
Employment Department will be at GKHS on November I st to conduct 
seminars on the new range of Homemakers' Benefits and Child 
Allowances and also on Continuing Education for Homemakers. On 
November 2 nd and 3 rd Oregon Introductions, Inc. will be on campus in 
the band room from 10 AM to 4 PM taking applications. Oregon 
Introductions. Inc. has over three thousand bachelors on file in Oregon 
and Washington, gentlemen who want to meet YOU! All age ranges, all 
religious affiliations, and all citizenship categories, including over 
FIFTY ALPHA CLASS CITIZENS and Party members! All carefully 
screened and psychologically profiled... " etc., etc. 

The two security agents found the principal in his office and 
identified themselves. Mr. Rogers was a small, neat-looking man in his 
thirties. His hair was parted down the middle, and he was dressed in 
one of the "new-old-fashioned" suits out of Seattle that looked about 
circa 1910, with a high wing collar, narrow cravat, and broad lapels, on 
which he wore the Operation Strikeout campaign ribbon. Redmond 
noted with amusement that the archaic fashions the government 
promoted actually seemed to be catching on more among young people 
here than up in Olympia. Some of the girl students wore long pleated 
skirts with wide leg-of-mutton sleeves and some of the boys were 
sporting straw boaters, bow ties and Oxford wingtips. "Fascinating," he 
said with a chuckle, peering through the glass office at the students 
passing by outside in the hall. "By God, those warlocks in the MoC are 
actually doing it! They've created a time machine! They're turning back 
the clock clothing-wise!" 

"Considering that the big fashion statement among kids their 
age in American classrooms is now full nudity, and they've just won 
Supreme Court backing for it, I'd say the Ministry of Culture is doing a 
slap-up job," replied Rogers wryly. 



H. A. Covington 

"To be honest, I think the girls at least look a lot prettier in 
those long dresses with the braids than in bobby sox or that drab 1930s 
look," put in Nel. "I think bobbed hair on women looks crappy." 

"You're not here for Ted Spears, are you?" asked Rogers with 
some alarm. "We only discovered it yesterday. Ted came forward and 
confessed and I intend to punish him severely, suspension and 
detention for the rest of the semester, plus expulsion from the football 
team. Surely nobody called BOSS about a simple practical joke, 
however tasteless?" 

"No. we're not here after Ted, whoever he is. Why, what did he 
do?" asked Nel. 

"He and two other boys, whom to give him due credit he 
honorably declines to name but whose identities I know quite well, got 
drunk and played a very stupid practical joke," said Rogers in 
exasperation. "There's a large formal photograph of President Morgan 
in the main foyer, which you may have seen as you came in. That's new. 
We had to replace the old one. Ted and the others brought beer into the 
locker room and consumed it after football practice. Rather a lot of it. 
They subsequently went into the art room, got scissors and cut up a 
watercolor done by one of our more talented Christian students. Then 
they went into the foyer, took down the photo of the State President 
and mutilated it most shockingly. They cut out his head and replaced it 
with the head of Satan from the student's painting. The girl is very 
upset. It's true Ted's family are Old Believers, but the other two are 
Christians. I am sure there was no religious message or incitement 
intended," Rogers hurried to assure them. "It was just a drunken 
prank." 

"How long before anyone noticed?" asked Redmond, trying to 
suppress a grin. 

"Three days," admitted Rogers shamefacedly. 

"If you don't mind a suggestion, read those guys the riot act and 
make them apologize to the girl whose property they destroyed, then 
give them extra work or detention or whatever, but don't gut your 
football team and don't worry about any religious or political issues," 
said Redmond. "It's not that big a deal, and no one wants to make it 



H. A. Covington 

one. Teenaged kids kick up the traces sometimes. This isn't the United 
States any more, thank God, and we don't lock up children for political 
incorrectness. Take my word for it, Corby Morgan is big enough not to 
take offense at some drunk kid taking the mock, and it isn't the first 
time he's been compared to the Devil. And you might remind those 
young men what happened to kids their age forty years ago who dared 
to make jokes at the expense of politically protected minorities." He 
thought of seventeen year-old Trudy Greiner thrown into living hell by 
the Americans for daring to make fun of a sacred perversion. After 
what they did to her, how could she take any amount of money from 
them? Redmond wondered, not for the first time. It just doesn't make 
sense. It doesn't jibe with everything we know of her character. "We 
want to speak to one of your teachers, Lars Frierson. He's not in any 
trouble, we just need some background from him. A case has come up 
that involves some rather shady goings-on during the War of 
Independence, and he remembers some of the people and events in 
question." 

"Lars is our History and Moral Philosophy teacher," Rogers told 
them. "To be frank, he's the best I have ever seen. Who better than an 
Olympic Flying Column veteran to instruct our children in the 
foundations of our state and our society? We're very proud to have him. 
His sixth period class is just starting, I believe. That's our prize senior 
group, every one of them on track for eventual Alpha citizenship, or 
else I'm very much mistaken." 

"Presuming they pass Mr. Frierson's course and he checks them 
off as having the basic understanding of moral principles necessary to 
assume the duties of citizenship in the Republic," Nel reminded him. 

"Yes, that's true. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you sat in." 

They entered Frierson's classroom on the second floor quietly, 
the principal with them. Frierson looked up from his blackboard, 
caught the principal's thumbs-up, nodded to the two newcomers, then 
without a second glance went on with his class. He was a lean and hard 
old man, hatchet-faced, and a curved white moustache that was not 
quite a handlebar framed his upper lip. Unlike all the rest of his 
students who were dressed in neat linen shirts and blouses and all 



H. A. Covington 

wearing ties, including the girls, Frierson wore a dark blue turtleneck 
sweater and a tweedy jacket with leather patches on the elbows. 

"1970 meets 1910," whispered Redmond to Nel. "This twentieth 
century fashion revival business can get weird." 

"Would you rather have them all naked, like in the United 
States?" whispered Nel back. "How silly can those people get, I 
wonder? Even after all that has happened in the last century, is there 
no limit to how insane they can become or how low they can sink?" 

"None whatsoever," replied Redmond. "Oh, excellent! This must 
be some of the NS part of the course!" On the board Lars Frierson had 
written: TEN PRINCIPLES OF NATIONAL SOCIALIST THOUGHT. 
Frierson touched a button and the Ten Principles appeared on a large 
screen above the blackboard: 

I. BE HONEST. A National Socialist faces a fact whether 
he likes it or not. Dishonesty is the mark of the enemy. 
National Socialism above all represents living truth in its 
purest form. 

II. BELIEVE IN GOD AND YOURSELF. The God of 
Destiny subjects only His strongest mortals to enormous 
tasks which would crush lesser men. God wills only the 
best to fulfill the highest task of life: to perfect mankind. 
Give yourself utterly unto Destiny, and God will shield 
you in your fight. God helps only those who help 
themselves. We will lose only if we lay down our arms 
due to our weakness and cowardice. There is only one 
true disgrace: submission to the enemies of our race. 

III. BE FAITHFUL TO YOUR RACE. No one must be 
allowed to spoil what Nature created down through 
aeons of racial evolution. Your highest purpose in life is 
to carry on that evolution toward a stronger, better, more 
beautiful mankind. The purity and strengthening of the 
Aryan race is the basic requirement of every future 
higher evolution. 



H. A. Covington 



IV. FIGHT FOR YOUR RACE. Fight for the holy ideals of 
National Socialism, the heart of your great race. Only in 
this struggle can you prove your true worth as a man or a 
woman. Only thus can you fulfill your potential for 
courage, dedication, and ennobling self sacrifice. Life's 
struggle for survival brought Man upwards from the 
apelike beings of the distant past to the height of Aryan 
culture and achievement. The Party's struggle will 
produce the revolutionary elite who will lead the National 
Socialist ideal to victory. 

V. YOU ARE A SUPERIOR INDIVIDUAL. You will be 
outnumbered in this struggle, because the best are always 
a minority. History-making decisions have never been 
the work of formless masses, but always victories by 
active and dedicated minorities. You are both the servant 
and the spokesperson for your race. Make sure you set an 
example worthy to be followed in your person and your 
life. 

VI. LOVE YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS. You owe 
your existence to your racial family; let your love of them 
be your overriding passion in life. Do not fear the 
Undermen, the racially inferior, and do not persecute 
them. You are their superior, but you are not their owner. 
When the time comes to fight them, do not lose your 
senses through counterproductive hatred. Detach 
yourself, clear your mind, and destroy them completely, 
methodically, clinically, as if in a surgical operation. 
Nothing is more pointless than wasting time hating mud 
people; it detracts from the positive love of your own. 

VII. IMPROVE YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS. All 
Aryan men and women are your brothers and sisters, 
although not all are equally intelligent or courageous. It is 
up to you to inform them, to encourage them, and to 
instill their hearts with courage. Some of your kinsfolk 
have been misled and made ugly by the Judaic evil which 



H. A. Covington 

is corrupting our racial soul. You must not hate them on 
that account, but rather strive to bring them back to their 
racial family. 

VIII. REJECT THE DECADENCE. Decadence is anything 
which detracts either physically or spiritually from the 
health and the upward development of our Aryan race. 
You must hold your racial and spiritual purity above your 
very life, and not associate with anything which is 
decadent or which gives your life the appearance of 
decadence. Every aspect of life must be judged in relation 
to the survival and improvement of your race; anything 
hindering these attainments must be ruthlessly rooted 
out and destroyed. 

IX. THE BEST MUST RULE. All great achievements on 
earth are the product of great leadership, political or 
scientific or artistic. The racial community can gain 
strength only by applying the Leadership Principle and 
placing in front the men and women who have 
demonstrated superior ability, dedication, and tenacity in 
the racial struggle. Democracy is a sickness that leads 
inevitably to chaos, corruption, and the collapse of 
society. From democracy steps forth the cruelest of 
tyrants. 

X. NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE. Where there is a will, 
there is a way. Everything falls before the man of 
indomitable will. Suffering and sacrifice are necessary. 
We are hardening ourselves for the most decisive 
struggle in all of human history. Victory will fall only to 
the most truthful, the most fanatical, the strongest, the 
bravest, and the best. Be that. 

"Right let's see if any of you read your homework 
assignments.*" Frierson said to his class, turning around. "Who wrote 
the Ten Principles? Mister Walker?" 



H. A. Covington 

"Uh, no one knows for sure, sir," said one of the teen-aged boys. 
"They have been attributed to Commander Rockwell, but they're not 
really in his writing style. Some say the Old Man wrote them but he 
always denied it, said he just found them in his mail one day back in the 
1990s sometime. They've also been attributed to David Myatt. Colin 
Jordan, and some others, but no one has ever been able to prove 
authorship one way or the other." 

"True," rapped Frierson. "Aside from the Cotswolds Declaration 
of 1962, the Ten Principles are considered to the best short exposition 
of the National Socialist world view yet formulated. What we are 
concerned with in this course is not their history, but whether or not 
you understand these principles, as well as the others that have been 
taught to you in this classroom and elsewhere, all throughout your 
lives. Not necessarily agree with them, but understand them 
sufficiently to be able to take on the duties of responsible citizenship." 

"What's not to understand?" asked another boy. "These things 
seem pretty straightforward to me." 

"Yes, Mr. Malone, they are straightforward enough." agreed 
Frierson. "But the truth and the power of these principles lie not in 
their straightforwardness, but in their depth. There is more to them 
than meets the eye, although it is sometimes difficult for your 
generation to understand why that is. You young ladies and gentlemen 
have had the unparalleled good fortune to grow up in a sane, stable, 
and racially homogenous society. You can read in books and hear from 
old codgers like me what life was like before the revolution, when this 
country was part of the American empire. You can read and you can 
hear our stories, but you cannot know. You cannot imagine what it is 
like to live, or rather to try to exist, in a world consisting in its entirety 
of lies. A world of unspeakably vile sexual perversions which by law I 
am not even allowed to describe to you, even had I any desire to do so, 
which I do not. A kleptocracy, quite literally rule by criminals, some of 
whom were so bad and so blatant they were even indicted under the 
Americans' own laws. A world based on no foundation other than sheer 
greed, wallowing in the most gross and despicable material gluttony. A 
wasteland of spiritual emptiness, moral corruption and cultural 



H. A. Covington 

pollution. An entire society that was based on a bizarre and grotesque 
moral inversion: the utterly ridiculous and thoroughly evil idea that all 
humanoid creatures are in some manner equal." 

"Sir, I've never gotten that," asked one of the girls curiously. 
"How could anyone even pretend to believe something that silly? It's 
like claiming the sun rises in the west, something that just obviously 
isn't true. All men and women are not equal. Some are smarter, some 
are faster, some are stronger, some are more spiritual, some have more 
sense of humor, some can wiggle their ears... and when you look at the 
history of civilization, you see the same thing in the races of mankind 
and what they created, or didn't create. Europe conquered Africa, not 
the other way around. Was that supposed to be accidental? I just can't 
see how the American ruling elite, even as stupid and corrupt as they 
were, could ever deny the clear truth about race." 

"They denied it because it was in their economic and political 
interest to do so, Miss Corelli," said Frierson. "The answer lies in the 
essential Judaic world view which rules most of the world today, but 
which up until forty years ago ruled all of it: materialism. Or secular 
humanism if you want to get fancy about it. If you are of the Christian 
faith, as many of you are, you would define it as the ancient struggle as 
to who shall rule the human soul and determine the destiny of 
humanity: man himself, or God. If you are a National Socialist, you 
would hold that Man is a part of Nature, while the American way 
teaches that he exists apart from it and above it and therefore is 
immune to Nature's laws. Materialism, ladies and gentleman. The 
world view of man as an economic animal rather than as a spiritual 
being with a soul. We went over this a couple of weeks ago, but I know 
the application here can be a bit obscure. Let us refresh our memories a 
bit. What are the two great philosophical and geopolitical 
manifestations of Judaic materialism? Mr. Korisov?" 

"Capitalism and communism!" said a young Russian boy, his 
English good but accented. 

"That is correct. And what is the dialectic basis of both these 
materialistic philosophies?" continued Frierson, striding up and down 



H. A. Covington 

the aisles holding his yardstick like a sergeant major's baton. "Miss 
Strydom?" 

"Both communism and capitalism are based on the 
presumption that man is not a spiritual being, but an economic unit of 
production and consumption," recited the Afrikaner girl from memory. 

"Precisely. They teach that every individual man and woman 
has, in the final analysis, only an economic existence. It therefore 
follows that there can be no right and wrong, only the economically 
profitable and the economically unsound. To both monopoly capitalism 
and Marxist socialism in all its variegations, man as an individual is 
anathema. He is a component in a great machine to be fueled and 
worked until worn out and then thrown away and replaced, preferably 
replaced with a cheaper and more durable unit with a brown skin. The 
only significant difference between these two philosophies is which 
clique gets the profit of mankind's labor, the privately owned 
multinational corporations, or the corporate and bureaucratic state? 
The 'friends of the captain' or the 'friends of the crew' as Commander 
Rockwell put it. Towards the end of the last century, there were 
virtually no meaningful differences between allegedly communist and 
capitalist societies anywhere in the world except in levels of efficiency. 
Granted, in most capitalist societies ordinary people did enjoy a 
somewhat higher standard of living, although in the present era even 
that has leveled out as the United States and most of Europe have 
become part of the Third World racially, economically, and culturally. 
But getting back to the question of how the American ruling elite could 
propagate an idea so clearly wrong-headed and pernicious as racial 
equality, remember that in the context of the times it was in their 
interest to do so. Leaving aside the spiritual element for a moment, 
what was the economic rationale behind the American imperial 
establishment importing millions of Third World immigrants into 
North America during the last half of the twentieth century? Mr. 
Spears, we haven't heard from your diabolical wit today." There was a 
ripple of laughter throughout the classroom. "No doubt you can give us 
some fiendishly clever answer to that question." 



H. A. Covington 

"Cheap labor, sir," replied a blond young man stiffly, apparently 
unappreciative of the reference to his drunken prank with the Devil's 
head cut-out. "The same reason they used feminism to pour millions of 
women into the workforce beginning in the 1960s. To create a vast pool 
of cheap labor for capitalism that would keep wages down and be much 
more easily manipulated than the traditional white male blue-collar 
working class. There were also social engineering and cultural 
objectives as part of the larger Judaeo-liberal agenda, involving the 
planned phasing out of the traditional family unit based on Christian 
values, and its replacement by sexually perverse and non-white 
substitutes that would be more brittle, less cohesive, and have less 
resistance to exploitation. The ultimate objective was to create a 
uniformly materialistic world based on the accumulation of the most 
massive profits possible, through the amalgamation of all the races of 
mankind into one brown-skinned, raceless, cultureless mass that would 
have no religious or cultural heritage at all and would respond to 
whatever the Judaeo-liberal ruling elite programmed into them." 

"Correct, Mr. Spears," said Frierson. "I am grateful that you 
have found the time to fit reading your homework assignment into your 
recent career of drunken japery. Now, having read it in the textbook, do 
you know what it means? " 

"I think I do, sir," said young Spears. "It means ZOG wanted to 
turn the whole world into an ant farm. They still do." 

"Not entirely an original thought, but succinct and correct," 
agreed Spears. "You definitely grasp the concept. ZOG's master plan, a 
plan built up through almost two centuries of social and political 
consensus among the ruling classes of the Western world, was and is to 
create a whole Brave New World, as it was called." 

"New World Order!" called out one of the kids. 

"Yes, it was also sometimes called the New World Order," 
conceded Frierson. "We'll get into this in somewhat more depth when 
we cover the Illuminati and Nesta Webster's work. It is a vision on the 
part of the Anglo-Zionist ruling class that has very seldom been 
explicitly articulated, except sometimes almost by accident. Every now 
and then, the bastards let the mask slip. If any of you should ever get a 



H. A. Covington 

chance to see an old movie entitled Soylent Green, I heartily 
recommend it. It is a largely forgotten and highly underrated classic 
that is sometimes shown on late night television these days. Made 
around 1973, I think. If you ever want to get a glimpse of what the 
revolution saved you and your descendants from, catch this flick. 
Soylent Green portrays the nightmare world that the unholy alliance of 
Zionism, capitalism, and liberalism sought to create. It was to be a 
world where a small little group of fantastically wealthy people live in 
unimaginable luxury. They would rule over a polluted and decayed 
planet consisting of billions of brown wage slaves, almost insect-like in 
their mindless conformity, existing in the very conditions of squalor 
and poverty which exist today in most places outside the Republic. 
Worker ants who would never revolt, because they didn't know 
anything better. Conditions in the United States haven't quite reached 
the soylent green level, but they're getting there. The mud-colored 
helots of America have no religion except things like the Ronald 
McDonald cult. They have no language except the primitive Spanglish 
patois which is now the lingua franca of the States and most of the 
remaining whites are now illiterate. They have no concept of history 
other than politically correct horse manure that ZOG spoonfeeds them 
about warrior bimbos wearing armored bikinis and ridiculous lies 
about all the great men and women of history all being colored, Jewish, 
Marxist, feminist, sexually perverted, or some combination of all the 
above. That is what the greatest tyranny the earth has ever seen spent 
almost a century preparing for. Laying the groundwork, slicing away 
the rights and the freedoms of white Americans and Canadians thin 
slice by slice. All leading toward the day when the world would become 
one huge global plantation while Massah Hymie and the international 
bankers sat on the verandas of the corporate mansions, with mint 
juleps and designer cocaine cocktails in their hands. They have almost 
succeeded, everywhere else on earth but here." 

"But how could the white people of that time just sit there and 
take it?" demanded one of the girls passionately. "Couldn't they see 
what was coming? The Old Man and others like Commander Rockwell 
and Pastor Miles warned them. Why didn't they do something?" 



H. A. Covington 

"Ah. There it is. The Great Question," said Frierson softly. "Miss 
Hansen, for the past century, both before and after the revolution, 
some of the greatest minds of our civilization have devoted whole 
lifetimes and lengthy scholarly works to the investigation and analysis 
of that very question. Why did the white man do nothing while 
everything he created, everything he held dear, the entire world that he 
had mastered was systematically undermined, broken and destroyed by 
the Jew and those who served the Jew? I have no doubt we will still be 
studying the problem a hundred years from now. I have no simple 
answer for you. No one knows. But we'd damned well better find out 
what went wrong in our minds and our souls, so that we can make sure 
it never, ever happens again. As to the second part of your question., 
.well, the fact is that we did do something, Miss Hansen," said Frierson 
somberly, touching the War of Independence ribbon on his lapel. 
"Almost too little, almost too late. Too late indeed to save all of 
America, but enough to build ourselves an ark to weather the great 
flood of mud. To the everlasting glory of God and the redemption of our 
racial honor, at the eleventh hour, the fifty-ninth minute, and the very 
last second, madam... we did do something.*" There was a short 
silence. "Do you know that there was one Volunteer who was only 
twelve years old when he was sworn into the NVA?" continued Frierson 
with a smile. 

"Oh, come on, sir!" one of the boys couldn't resist interjecting. 
"Twelve years old?" 

"Yes, Mr. Jardine. Twelve. The former Volunteer I refer to came 
into this room a few minutes ago and is sitting in the back along with 
that other gentleman. May I introduce Colonel Donald Redmond of the 
Bureau of State Security, and the gentleman with the somewhat 
weather-beaten countenance who is... ?" 

"Sergeant Nel," spoke up Hennie. 

"Ah, yes. Sergeant Hendrik Nel. who recently defeated the 
former NDF bare-knucks middleweight champion Ross Manlis after a 
thrilling forty-seven rounds. Winning me three hundred and fifty 
credits from the sports pool down at the Ten Bells, I might add. Any 



H. A. Covington 

chance I could persuade you to give some of our school's boxing team 
some pointers, Sergeant?" 

The youthful heads of the whole class turned to look at Don and 
Hennie sitting quietly in the back. Don's lips pursed in a smile. Trying 
to throw me off balance, is he? Don chuckled to himself. "Don't worry, 
we haven't come for young Mister Spears," Don called out. There was a 
chorus of laughter in the class. "And actually, if we're being completely 
accurate here, there was another Volunteer who was eleven when she 
took the oath." 

"We start teaching them to shoot at ten nowadays, in the public 
schools," Frierson said, speaking more to Don than to the class. 
"Although I am glad to say most families start their children younger 
than that, at home.*' 

"My eight year-old has a permission slip from his mother and I 
to attend shooting class with the fifth graders. He loves playing Little 
Willie with his .22," said Redmond. "You know, the kids* game on the 
elementary school ranges where Little Willie hides behind his lawyer 
and you have to pop him when he peeps out from behind the armored 
briefcase?" The bell rang and cut short the possibility that Don would 
be dragged up to the podium by the teacher and asked to give an 
impromptu lecture on his experiences during the revolt, for which he 
was grateful. The students rose and gathered their books, gazing at Don 
and Hennie curiously as they left. Frierson came forward and shook 
Don's hand. "Sorry, Colonel Redmond, Sergeant Nel, I couldn't forbear 
the temptation to let my students know we had a couple of celebrities in 
our midst. I recall seeing you at several of the Old Fighters' functions, 
and you may recall that Bill Vitale introduced us once. I got your 
message saying you wanted to talk to me, but I wasn't sure when I 
should expect you. Do you want to come down to the teacher's lounge?" 

"Do you have another class, Colonel Frierson?" asked Redmond. 

"No, school's out and I'm through for the day," said Frierson. 
"And Colonel is my reserve rank. At Gordon Kahl High I'm Mr. 
Frierson." 

"Then we can just have a seat here." They did so, and Frierson 
accepted the gift of one of the rolled Havanas. Nel declined, being a 



H. A. Covington 

non-smoker. Don lit his own cigar and said, "This won't take too long. 
Mr. Frierson, something has come up which properly seems to belong 
to the past, but which may have a very important effect on this 
country's future. I need to speak with you about the events surrounding 
the ambush and destruction of the Olympic Flying Column at Ravenhill 
Ranch." 

Frierson's brow furrowed and his face grew grim. "I think you 
know I'll give you any help I can, Colonel, but what the hell could that 
horrible... what could Ravenhill possibly have to do with the price of 
eggs today? My God, it's been almost forty years! There are kids in this 
school whose parents weren't even born then!" 

"The State President has received a letter from Trudy Greiner," 
Redmond informed him. 

"From... Trudy... Greiner." Frierson stared and was silent for a 
long moment. "And has this letter been authenticated?" he demanded 
intensely. 

"As best we can do so, yes. It may be a forgery of some kind, 
some ONR trick we haven't figured out yet, but we are proceeding on 
the assumption that the letter is authentic. In that letter Trudy Greiner 
asserts her innocence of the charge of treason which has been 
traditionally leveled against her. She denies that she was responsible 
for the destruction of the Olympic Flying Column and she says she 
wants a public trial or court martial. She furthermore states that she is 
going to celebrate Independence Day this year by walking across the 
border at Mountain Gate into the Republic, whereupon we will all hear 
the rusty screech of a gigantic can of worms opening." 

"Trudy Greiner claims that she is innocent?" asked Frierson, 
stunned. "Christ, how could she? I thought that BOSS had pretty much 
nailed her as the recipient of that million dollars?" 

"There are some odd things coming to light about that," said 
Redmond. "I need to learn everything I possibly can about what 
happened at Ravenhill that day. I am also interested in learning 
whatever you can tell me about a meeting which was held the night 
before the ambush at a house in Hoodsport that the NVA used as an 
assembly point. Whatever treachery led to the destruction of the 



H. A. Covington 

column, it almost certainly had its origins at some point during that 
meeting." 

"I was there for most of the meeting," recalled Frierson, his eyes 
dimming as he let his mind wander back into the past. "I was a fairly 
senior Volunteer." 

"And how did you get involved with the racial resistance 
originally, sir?" asked Nel. "How did you end up joining the NVA? 
We're asking everybody that, by way of background." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes sir," said Redmond. "You understand that I am trying to 
get as broad an overview as possible of the people involved in those 
events. You never know what may turn out to be significant. So when 
and how did you become racially aware?" 

"Oh, I'm one of those NS from birth types who were fairly 
common in those days," said Frierson with a reminiscent smile. 
"Drawing swastikas all over everything from the time I was six years 
old, desperate to find and watch every movie I could find about 
Holocaust Two just so I could catch a glimpse of that coal-scuttle 
helmet and hear German spoken." 

"Yeah, same here," replied Redmond. "My wife is a witch, and 
she tells me that people like that are the reincarnated souls of the 
millions of soldiers and civilians of the Third Reich who were cut off 
from life prematurely and violently during the Second European 
Holocaust. We gravitated naturally towards right wing causes and 
ideologies because we left unfinished business behind in Germany." 

"Be that as it may, it was always obvious to me even from my 
childhood that something was very badly wrong in the world," said 
Frierson. "I was NS from a very young age and involved quite young as 
well, although not very constructively. I started out as a teenaged 
skinhead back in Atlanta, believe it or not, although I got those 
ridiculous tattoos removed many years ago,*" he chuckled. 

"Never a Piercie?" asked Redmond. 

"No, even when I was a teenager it was obvious to me Piercism 
was nothing but a cult with a guru sitting up in a remote mountain 



H. A. Covington 

ashram clipping coupons," said Frierson. "I wanted action. I was 
arrested a number of times for various drunken escapades as a 
skinhead, which is one reason I was a bit hard on Ted Spears just now. 
You heard what he... ?" 

"Yes, Principal Rogers told us." Redmond told him. 

"I just want to make sure the boy understands that he has 
reached an age when things like that have consequences and they can 
stay with him. Through a combination of luck and a grandmother who 
doted on me and was wealthy enough to hire top-notch legal counsel. I 
got off with only a few short jail terms. Then one day I got hold of a 
leaflet from the Northwest Agency, the Fundamental Principles of 
Northwest Migration, and it hit me like a thunderbolt. This was it. 
never a doubt in my mind before or since. I hit the books like hell and 
brought my SATs up to 1400, conned Gran into paying for my tuition at 
the University of Oregon, and then one glorious day I was on a plane 
for Eugene. I completed my first year at university, and then I went into 
the underground. I was with Murdock from the very beginning, when 
the Old Man swore us in on 10/22 at Coeur dAlene. Tom and I went off 
together and hijacked a gasoline tanker as our first revolutionary 
combat action." 

"When did you first hear about the planned attack on Port 
Orchard?" asked Nel. 

"Not until we reached the Hoodsport safe house," replied 
Frierson. "We got the order to assemble there the day before. I was 
responsible for fitting out a pickup truck we'd gotten hold of as a scout 
vehicle for the Column, putting on fake license plates, making sure we 
had enough gas and that we had basic weapons and first aid supplies. 
The purpose of a scout vehicle was to report any enemy activity or 
blockages on the road ahead when the Column was moving by vehicle, 
and if necessary run interference for them while they escaped and 
evaded." 

"Can you recall anything special about the meeting in 
Hoodsport on that particular night?" asked Redmond. 

"They were all special, Colonel," said Frierson somberly. "We 
were a band of brothers and sisters and we lived every moment of our 



H. A. Covington 

lives as if it were our last together. Then finally that night, it was our 
last. Every time we got together to plan an operation we knew that 
there was a better than even chance that some of us would be dead 
within twenty-four hours. That awareness tends to concentrate the 
mind. The memory of that meeting is especially poignant to me, in view 
of what happened later on that very morning. I have often thought 
about it. dreamed about it... that last time we were all together. We 
were all pretty excited about the new mortar technique. We all wanted 
to be there when Drago and Frank Palmieri set off the sixteen mortar 
tubes, but we knew that wouldn't be possible. Our job was to move in 
and surround the courthouse and complete what the mortars started 
with small arms fire and RPGs. Our objective was to make sure that not 
one single attorney or Federal got out alive. But all of us were looking 
forward to the mortars, seeing lawyers blown sky high. Joe Cord and 
Ron Nolan made a study from available media archives on the Internet 
on several occasions in the late 1980s and early 1990s when the 
Provisional IRA had used that particular weapon, and they felt it was 
feasible. With sixteen tubes and each home-made mortar shell packing 
a 200-pound warhead of home-made gelignite, we would be able to 
deliver over a ton and a half of HE right over the razor wire and the 
concrete abutments and right down onto the heads of dozens of legal 
leeches, judges and Federal thugs. As it turned out, four of our 
comrades were able to simply ram the truck through the front door and 
detonate the payload. The stupid fools had prepared for everything 
except an out and out frontal attack. They never thought we'd have the 
courage to go right up against them, head on." 

"Yes, we have already spoken to Minister Palmieri, and we will 
be interviewing the McCanlesses later on," said Redmond. "That part of 
it seems fairly straightforward, sir. What I am more interested in is the 
meeting that took place at the Hoodsport safe house the previous night. 
Can we get back to that? If there is any clue to be found as to what 
Trudy Greiner intends to spring on us, it seems to me it must be found 
there. What time did Trudy Greiner arrive at the meeting that night?" 



H. A. Covington 

"Er, if memory serves, a little past midnight," said Frierson. "I 
remember that we weren't sure when she was getting there and there 
was also a little bit of concern, because her cell phone was on the fritz." 

"Did that excite any suspicion?" asked Redmond. 

"No, it was legit. Trudy had one of those crappy Chinese Astras, 
and their communications satellite had actually crashed into the South 
Atlantic that very morning. Quality Sino-Israeli workmanship. It was 
all over the media because all the thousands of Astras were dead as well 
as Trude's. In any case, Trudy checked her phone with Ed McCanless 
like we all did, and he made sure that working or not, it was turned off. 
The idea being that an incoming call might give away the location of the 
phone to some of Fattie's hotshot electronic surveillance. I never 
noticed that it was all that effective, but we took precautions anyway. 
For example, we ran metal detectors and voltage sensors over everyone 
who attended the meeting to make sure no one was wearing a wire or 
had any kind of subdural bugging devices planted beneath their skin." 

"Couldn't the NVA afford to give her a decent cell phone that 
worked?" asked Nel. "After all, she was more or less in charge of their 
support unit." 

"The cheap phone was an important part of her cover," 
explained Frierson. "Trudy was supposed to be a secretary for a temp 
agency making $23,000 a year. If she'd been stopped and found to be 
in possession of a $6,000 phone that accessed a worldwide grid 
through a decently constructed Euro satellite, it would have been a 
break in pattern that would have tipped off any sharp counterterrorism 
cop that something wasn't kosher, in every sense of the term." 

"So she arrived at a little past midnight. Were you present 
during the whole time during that meeting, Mr. Frierson?" 

"Yes, I was assisting McCanless on security," Frierson told 
them. "I sat in a corner with headphones on, listening to a souped-up 
police scanner, going up and down through the frequencies, listening 
for any kind of traffic or chatter that might have seemed out of place or 
might indicate they were onto us. Murdock was jumpy with all of our 
force being in a single place, so he wanted me to keep my ears on. The 



H. A. Covington 

result was that I couldn't actually hear much of what was being said, 
but I had a good view of them all." 

"Can you recall anything at all about that meeting which might 
have indicated that anything was about to go wrong? Trudy Greiner or 
anyone else acting suspiciously? Asking unusual questions?" 

"Anything that would indicate who the informant was, if it 
wasn't Trude?" asked Frierson. "No, Colonel, to be honest I can't. Oh, 
we were all pretty hyped. This was going to be a major action, we were 
trying out a new weapon against the enemy and we knew we had the 
chance of striking a major blow." 

"Those cell phones... " said Nel, his brow furrowed. "You say 
they were all turned off. You say you were in the meeting for most of 
the time. Were you there at about two o'clock?" 

"Yes... yes, Sergeant, I was. Why?" asked Frierson. 

"Was Trudy Greiner still in the room at two o'clock?" asked 
Redmond keenly. 

"Uh, yes. I believe she was," confirmed Frierson. 

"What time did Trudy Greiner leave the meeting?" asked 
Redmond. "Can you give us any kind of concrete time for that?" 

"As best I can recall it was a little past three," said Frierson. 

"What vehicle was she driving when she left?" asked Redmond. 

"Ah. her own car. A white Nissan, I believe it was. She had 
something to do before she reported to the aid station in Poulsbo." 

"Do you know what that was?" asked Redmond. "Possibly pick 
up the van that was to be used as the ambulance for the wounded if 
necessary?" 

"Uh, no. I can't say for sure, but whatever it was, Murdock 
seemed to know about it and he was okay with it," replied Frierson with 
a distant look, obviously straining his brain to remember. "She was 
supposed to be there at the aid station at seven in the morning. She 
never showed. Why? Is the time that important?" 

"Yes, sir, it may well prove to be crucial. We know that the 
enemy commanding officer, Major Woodrow Coleman of the Federal 
Anti-Terrorist Police Organization, received a call on his private cell 
phone at a little after two A. M.," Redmond informed him. "Colonel 



H. A. Covington 

Frierson, are you willing to swear that you were in the same room with 
Trudy Greiner at two in the morning? You understand the implications, 
sir?" 

"Yes, I do," replied Frierson, appalled. "I... I never knew that 
you had an actual time on the call that the informant made to ZOG. 
Trudy's phone wasn't even working, and even if it had been she didn't 
have it in her possession. Ed McCanless had them stashed away 
somewhere, damned if I can recall where. She couldn't have made that 
call." 

"An interesting question, Colonel," said Nel. "Why did no one in 
any of the previous investigations ever notice the fact that Volunteer 
Greiner had something of an alibi for the two A. M. time period?" 

"As I recall from going over all those old files, the CO of the 
investigation did in fact notice that discrepancy but discounted it," 
returned Redmond. "He figured that Trudy might have had another cell 
phone hidden on her person. Or she might have been wearing a wire, a 
wire connected to someone who was listening and who made the call to 
Coleman. That is at least a feasible possibility, of course. Mr. Frierson, 
this is important. She didn't leave the room at any time? To go to the 
can, to get a cup of coffee or a beer, anything? I know it's been more 
than thirty years, but try, try to remember! The fact is that thus far 
you're the only person we've talked to thus far who was with Trudy 
Greiner during that brief window of time. We'll be talking with Dr. 
Cord, of course, but we want to get everything we can from you first." 

"I'm damned if I can remember every single minute, second by 
second," said Frierson with a helpless shrug and wave of his hand. "I'm 
sorry. It's possible she might have done something to communicate 
with the outside, but I am damned if I can see how. If she was wired or 
bugged in any way, it must have been something so sophisticated that it 
contained no metal and didn't utilize any electric or electronic impulses 
at all, or our body scan would have picked it up. If there had been any 
suspicion at all we would have strip-searched the suspected person, by 
force if necessary, and that includes everyone up to Murdock himself. 
Gathered together like that we were vulnerable, we knew it, and we 
took no chances." 



H. A. Covington 

"Very well. Moving on, sir, can you tell us what happened that 
morning? I understand that you and Bill Vitale were in the green 
pickup truck that served as the Column's scout vehicle during the 
movement towards Port Orchard. I know Bill personally and he once 
described to me what happened, but I'd like to hear your version of it." 

"We were on that county road just north of Shelton, and we 
were somewhat ahead of the column because we were coming up to the 
point where we were to cross over Highway 101," recounted Frierson. 
"If there were any obvious enemy movements or anything else 
suspicious. Bill and I wanted to give the rest of them as much lead 
warning as we could. We rode right through the ambush position and 
we saw nothing. The FATPOs weren't total slouches, and given time 
they knew how to use camouflage and dig scrapes. All of a sudden we 
heard the firing from behind us and pulled over. Bill and I both 
understood what was happening, instantly. We got out of the truck, 
took our rifles and headed back on foot to reconnoiter, but it was 
obvious from the magnitude of the fire that something major was going 
down. More by accident than anything else we ran into a couple of 
FATPOs; I think they were actually fleeing the scene. We shot and 
killed them both. We had no field glasses or anything but it simply 
became obvious that there was nothing we could do. There were so 
many round strikes on the hillside just out of our view that they were 
raising a cloud of dust. With great difficulty I persuaded Bill to go back 
to the truck and E & E the area in accordance with General Order 
Number Eight." 

"You drove right through the Ravenhill ambush site and you 
saw nothing?" 

"Neither I nor Volunteer William Vitale saw anything at all." 
said Frierson tersely. "In short, Colonel, we both failed to do our jobs. I 
would have given up my life willingly then and I would do so now if it 
would change that, but that is not possible. What happened, happened. 
We failed and so the responsibility for what happened to the Column 
lies largely with us, or more specifically with me, since I was the senior 
Volunteer." 



H. A. Covington 

"Mr. Frierson, we have spoken with Arthur McBride, a former 
FATPO officer who took part in the ambush at Ravenhill on the enemy 
side, but who defected to the NVA soon after. He tells us that the 
negroid FATPO commander Coleman was aware that a green Dodge 
pickup truck would be used as a scout vehicle, and that he ordered his 
men lying in the ambush not to fire at you and let you pass. Were you 
aware of that?" 

"I was," said Frierson. "I believe that all came out at the formal 
court of inquiry after the revolution. The same one that sentenced 
Gertrude Greiner to death in absentia." 

"Who knew the exact vehicle that you and Vitale would be 
driving?" 

"I'm not sure. I probably mentioned that the vehicle was a 
pickup truck at some point when I was in the conference, but I honestly 
can't recall if I mentioned the make or the color. I don't think so. I 
would have had no reason to do so." 

Redmond sighed. "Mr. Frierson, as you are a National Socialist I 
know that you take a balanced view of the religious issues which I 
regret to say have plagued our country since its inception. But are you 
aware of the fact that Tom Murdock was apparently a follower of the 
Norse gods while Melanie Young, according to all historical record, was 
a devout Christian fundamentalist, what used to be know back in those 
days as a Jesus freak?" 

"Yes. I once went so far as to ask Mel about it, just out of pure 
curiosity. She said that God's gifts sometimes come in unlikely 
packages. The simple fact was that from the moment they set eyes on 
each other they were completely head over heels in love, which was 
both a beautiful and a terrible thing for us to watch, considering where 
we were and what was happening all around us." 

"Was Trudy Greiner jealous?" asked Redmond. 

"She was hurt," said Frierson with deliberation. "I could tell 
that. And yes, the thought has crossed my mind down through the 
years that she might have been so badly hurt that she lost all sense of 
proportion and lashed out, but in such a terrible and evil way? I just 
can't buy that. I never did, despite the findings of the tribunal. She was 



H. A. Covington 

as solid for the revolution in her own quiet way as Melanie was in her 
passionate and turbulent way. I believed at the time that she accepted 
the situation philosophically and with dignity. The story of that million 
dollars has always been what totally baffles me about that whole sorry 
mess. Dammit, I just can't see her... it just doesn't feel right!" 

"Trudy Greiner left the safe house at Hoodsport at three," said 
Redmond moodily as the aircar winged its way back to Olympia and 
hour or so later. "At seven o'clock she's AWOL from her post at the aid 
station in Poulsbo. What happened with her in those four hours? That 
has to be the key." 

"I just remembered something," said Nel "You never did tell me 
just who was the original commanding officer of the tribunal that 
investigated Ravenhill?" 

"Commandant John Corbett Morgan," said Redmond 
tonelessly. "He didn't tell me that, either. I had to learn it from the 
files." 

Nel said nothing for the rest of the flight. There seemed to be 
nothing to say. 



The next morning Nel and Redmond drove down to Centralia, 
300 feet above the old Interstate Five. "Is Cord as weirded-out as 
everyone says he is?" asked the Afrikaner sergeant. 

"He can be... difficult and abrupt," Redmond said carefully. 
"You might say that he's kind of the last of the GUBUs." 

"The what? " 

"GUBU. Grotesque, Unbelievable, Bizarre and Unprecedented. 
It's a slang term the Old Man picked up somewhere on his travels. He 
started using it in his writings about the twentieth century racial 
resistance movement, and it stuck. Cord is of a certain anachronistic 
type the movement mostly weeded out in the early part of this century, 
or who were more accurately weeded out by ZOG when they did stupid 
things and were arrested. Eccentrics, misfits, sad sacks, dysfunctionals 



H. A. Covington 

or barely functionals who came to the cause looking for an intellectual 
night's lodging, or simply a night's lodging of any kind. Cord is what 
might be politely called a rugged individualist, and not so politely called 
an asshole. He is arrogant and conceited, he has an extremely abrasive 
personality and he has great difficulty getting along with people. The 
other side of that coin is that he is what's called a polymath, a genius in 
multiple fields, and he has always placed those talents at the service of 
the Party and the Republic. I think Palmieri hit it right on the head. 
Throughout his entire life Cord has manifested an incredible ability to 
make himself absolutely indispensable to the revolution, to the point 
where the rest of us have learned to grit our teeth and put up with him. 
This should be interesting." 

Even with their Bureau of State Security credentials it took 
them almost half an hour to get through the extensive SS security into 
the main block of the Northwest Space Center. The facility itself was the 
size of a small town, neatly laid out, row after row of buildings and 
hangars and warehouses. The streets were labeled by specialty: 
Cybernetics Street, Telemetry Avenue, Propulsion Square, Plasma 
Place, Mars Boulevard, Luna Lane, Aerodynamics Avenue, etc. To the 
east stretched the great tarmac expanse of the spaceport itself, dotted 
with great gantries rearing skyward, scooters and trucks and service 
vehicles swarming back and forth like beetles. Two shuttlecraft on the 
launching pads were fueling from massive rolling tankers the size of 
Don*s house. The entire base was ringed with banks of plasma-ray 
anti-aircraft weapons, equipped with the latest computerized firing 
systems and the most highly trained battery crews in the Republic. Any 
attempt to hit the spaceport from the air or from space itself would 
draw a devastating counterfire. 

They found Dr. Joseph Cord in his office, leaning back in his 
rolling chair behind his desk and contemplating a computer display 
plate that filled one wall of the room. The famous scientist was scowling 
intently at a weird congeries of geometric forms that seemed to be 
doing some kind of mating dance. Occasionally he diddled with a 
remote mouse and the dance seemed to change directions. Redmond 
had no idea what the gyrating rhomboids and tetrahedrons meant. 



H. A. Covington 

Cord was a tall and stoop-shouldered man in his seventies wearing a 
dusty white lab coat. A shock of unruly white hair fell down into his 
eyes as he peered into the computer screen. His heavy-featured face 
was smooth-shaven but his sunken cheeks and chin were white- 
stubbled. Laser surgery to correct defects of vision was now a standard 
procedure in the Northwest Republic, in most cases being performed in 
childhood as soon as the problem was diagnosed, but nonetheless Cord 
still affected a large pair of thick, horn-rimmed spectacles. In a country 
where corrective lenses were now completely unknown, this was 
definitely on the high side of eccentric. Eyeglasses were more antique 
than the fad for waxed moustaches. As they walked in. Cord looked up 
and stared at the two policemen through his bottle-lensed glasses. He 
had an odd facial tic and behind the lenses his pale green eyes seemed 
to roll like those of a child's doll, although possibly that was an optical 
illusion. "Dr. Cord, I am Colonel Donald Redmond and this is Sergeant 
Hendrik Nel, from the Bureau of State Security." 

"Yes. I know who you are," said Cord abruptly, his voice a low, 
hollow booming sound. "My secretary gave me your message, which I 
had neither the time nor the inclination to answer. I have nothing to do 
with security matters. Not my department. What do you want?" 

"The truth about what happened at Ravenhill Ranch," replied 
Don. 

Cord took off his glasses. Without them his baleful glare was 
even more unnerving. "And what on earth makes you think I can tell 
you that?" he boomed. "Speak up, young man! You look like you need a 
dose of ipecac!" 

It had been a long time since anyone had called Don 'y° un g 
man." "Well, now that you put it to me that way, I realize you probably 
can't tell me after all," admitted Redmond with a casual shrug. "I doubt 
if you know much of anything I can't get somewhere else." 

"Do not patronize me and do not attempt to use reverse 
psychology on me. young man. You aren't very good at it and I am in 
any case immune to mind games, since my mind is infinitely superior 
to anyone who might attempt to play them. I am as close to omniscient 
as any human being in history has ever become," rumbled Cord. He 



H. A. Covington 

wasn't even indignant. He was simply stating a fact that was entirely 
obvious to him. "I have spent my entire life filling my mind with 
anything and everything worth knowing, and as a result I can tell you 
pretty much what you want to know about anything at all, if I am so 
disposed and if you have the intellect to understand my response." 

"That is an impressive talent to possess, sir," said Redmond 
dryly. "Omniscience can be a handy facility for a policeman. I may be 
consulting you more often in the future. But in the matter of Ravenhill 
Ranch. I believe you have a part of the truth, even though you may not 
know it. I want to discover your piece of the puzzle so that I can 
eventually fit them all together." 

"How very scientific of you!" sneered Cord. "That was very long 
ago and I haven't thought of that episode for many years. Whv now?" 

"Because Trudy Greiner is Coming Home. She says she is 
innocent," said Redmond. 

"No woman is innocent," grunted Cord. "Since the time of Eve, 
women have been vessels of iniquity. Original Sin, gentlemen. Original 
Sin. The curse of God is upon all womankind, clearly stated in the 
Scriptures. One of the reasons I never married one, in spite of our 
government's fecund social policy." 

"Is that why not? Probably best for all concerned," agreed Don 
politely. 

"Personally I have always favored reproduction of the species 
through artificial insemination, based on a strict eugenic program. I am 
of course willing to donate my own superior genetic material for such 
an endeavor." 

"How very scientific of you, sir. Not to mention patriotic." 
Redmond and Nel seated themselves on the sofa that stood against one 
wall of the office. 

"I did not ask you to sit down," said Cord with a scowl. 

"I didn't ask your permission," said Redmond. "We're BOSS. We 
sit where we like and we shit where we like. Doctor Cord, since your 
time is obviously valuable I will get right to the point. It is my 
understanding that as part of the troop dispositions for the mortar 



H. A. Covington 

attack on the Special Criminal Court in Port Orchard, you were 
assigned to set up a temporary aid station in Poulsbo, in anticipation of 
possible casualties from the action. May I ask if this was a regular 
division of labor in the Column?" 

"Yes. I worked my way through my junior and senior years at 
UCLA as a part-time paramedic, or EMT as they were called in those 
days," said Cord. "I was never particularly interested in medicine, but it 
is a branch of biology and biology does have a number of scientific 
applications, and as an EMT I could also gain access to live specimens 
for experimentation in such fields a bacteriology, organic chemistry, 
and so on. The fact was that I was the closest thing to a doctor the 
Column had. I was at the aid station, a Burger Boy restaurant just 
outside Poulsbo that was run on a franchise by a Party sympathizer." 

"How very scientific of you!" sneered Cord. "That was very long 
ago and I haven't thought of that episode for many years. Why now?" 

"Because Trudy Greiner is Coming Home. She says she is 
innocent," said Redmond. 

"No woman is innocent," grunted Cord. "Since the time of Eve, 
women have been vessels of iniquity. Original Sin, gentlemen. Original 
Sin. The curse of God is upon all womankind, clearly stated in the 
Scriptures. One of the reasons I never married one, in spite of our 
government's fecund social policy." 

"Is that why not? Probably best for all concerned," agreed Don 
politely. 

"Personally I have always favored reproduction of the species 
through artificial insemination, based on a strict eugenic program. I am 
of course willing to donate my own superior genetic material for such 
an endeavor." 

"How very scientific of you, sir. Not to mention patriotic." 
Redmond and Nel seated themselves on the sofa that stood against one 
wall of the office. 

"I did not ask you to sit down," said Cord with a scowl. 

"I didn't ask your permission," said Redmond. "We're BOSS. We 
sit where we like and we shit where we like. Doctor Cord, since your 



H. A. Covington 

time is obviously valuable I will get right to the point. It is my 
understanding that as part of the troop dispositions for the mortar 
attack on the Special Criminal Court in Port Orchard, you were 
assigned to set up a temporary aid station in Poulsbo, in anticipation of 
possible casualties from the action. May I ask if this was a regular 
division of labor in the Column?" 

"Yes. I worked my way through my junior and senior years at 
UCLA as a part-time paramedic, or EMT as they were called in those 
days," said Cord. "I was never particularly interested in medicine, but it 
is a branch of biology and biology does have a number of scientific 
applications, and as an EMT I could also gain access to live specimens 
for experimentation in such fields a bacteriology, organic chemistry, 
and so on. The fact was that I was the closest thing to a doctor the 
Column had. I was at the aid station, a Burger Boy restaurant just 
outside Poulsbo that was run on a franchise by a Party sympathizer." 

"A Burger Boy?" asked Redmond. "Wasn't that a rather public 
and exposed position?" 

"Urban camouflage," explained Cord impatiently. "Very basic 
stuff. Surely you were in the military yourself? Surely they give you 
some kind of training in your organization? I shouldn't have to tell you 
these things. Hide in plain sight, Colonel. We discovered through 
experience that a semi-public position for such facilities was actually 
better than some obscure little house in the country where unusual 
traffic in and out might be detectable by aerial and satellite 
surveillance. The satellites would not see anything out of the ordinary 
in many cars coming and going outside a fast food restaurant, only 
typical Americans and their grossly overweight offspring pulling in to 
tank up on cholesterol, starch and salt. We always set up a medic 
station before any major action, not only for medical purposes but for 
redirection if things went badly. If any of our men were wounded and 
could escape and evade, they tried to make it to the aid station, and I 
did what I could to help them. Sometimes I could save their lives, 
sometimes they ended up buried in shallow graves nearby. On the 
morning of August I st , I had set up a crude operating theater in the 
store room, as sterile as I could get it using disinfectant and disposable 



H. A. Covington 

sanitary wipes, along with as many units of plasma and whole blood as 
we had been able to steal from various hospitals and blood banks. I was 
required to know all our people's blood types, of course, and I recall I 
had to re-type every pint of whole blood we obtained because the Third 
World medical personnel in the American hospitals and the Red Cross 
were so stunningly incompetent. Sometimes as much as 20 percent of 
the blood was mistyped. Volunteer David Leach was with me for 
security. He was a rather violent and uncouth young man, not to 
mention a blasphemer and a sinner who was headed straight for hell 
and no doubt still is unless he wakes up in time to accept Jesus Christ 
as his personal savior. But he was very good with a gun. He was my 
bodyguard. I was considered to be the most important member of the 
Column and Mr. Leach was my escort to make sure I could get my job 
done. Miss Gertrude Greiner was supposed to join me there. She was a 
damned fine nurse, and truth to tell she was as good a paramedic as I 
was. One of the few women on earth I've ever had any time for. But she 
never showed up." 

"What time was she supposed to report to the aid station?" 
asked Redmond. 

"0700 hours. When she was half an hour late Leach began 
trying to contact Commandant Murdock on a pager with a special 
coded warning number, meaning that something might be wrong and 
to proceed with caution. When she still hadn't showed by eight o'clock, 
Leach tried calling on a series of cell phone numbers belonging to 
Murdock, Melanie Young, and others. He got no answer from any of 
them. We now know why, of course." Cord hesitated. The memory of 
those grim, eerie unanswered calls was apparently powerful enough to 
penetrate even his self-absorption. "About eight thirty that morning we 
saw news of the ambush on CNN. I immediately broke everything down 
and Mr. Leach and I evacuated the area to our respective E & E 
stations. In my case it was a dirty-trailer behind a Jiffy Lube in 
Tacoma." 

"And do you know what Volunteer Leach's E & E station was?" 
asked Redmond. 



H. A. Covington 

"No, of course not!" replied Cord irritably. "That was a standard 
security precaution. Everyone in the unit had such a place of refuge in 
case things went bad, but we never told one another where our E & E's 
were, specifically to frustrate informers. You wear the ribbon, Colonel. 
You must know this. What was your bolt hole?" 

"I had two. A short-range hideout in the janitor's office at 
Sammamish High School and a long-term regroup point in North 
Bend. Dr. Cord, we have come to believe that the secret to unraveling 
the answer to what happened at Ravenhill lies in something that took 
place during the conference at the Hoodsport safe house during the 
night and the early hours of the morning which immediately preceded 
the ambush. We understand that Trudy Greiner left the safe house at 
approximately three o'clock in the morning, and that she did so in her 
own car. Does that fit in with your recollection?" 

"Mmm, yes. I believe so. A white Nissan. I believe." 

"We understand that she was supposed to arrive at the medical 
aid station driving a van which had been converted into an impromptu 
ambulance for use if needed. Is that right?" continued Redmond. 

"Yes," replied Cord. 

"We are therefore working on the assumption that when she left 
the safe house she was headed to someplace else to collect that van. Do 
you know where?*' 

"I believe you are correct, Colonel. Where was the van? That I 
couldn't tell you for certain. I do recall that Commandant Murdock and 
Miss Greiner had a conversation off in one corner of a few minutes' 
duration. I assume he gave her his instructions then." 

"You don't know if the van was parked or stashed somewhere? 
Or if it was delivered to her anywhere, by another driver, perhaps?" 

"Ah, I understand," said Cord. "You are trying to deduce the 
possible presence of an as yet unknown party in the affair who might 
have been involved in the betrayal of the column. Very clever." 
Redmond was slightly unsettled by the quickness with which Cord 
picked up on his line of reasoning. The man was no fool, however 
unpleasant he came across. "The answer is, I didn't know, nor did I ask. 
We operated on a strict need to know basis and I didn't need to know 



H. A. Covington 

that particular detail. All I needed to know was that the medivac vehicle 
would be there at the Burger Boy if we needed it. Yes, it is possible she 
was meeting someone to pick up the van directly. In fact, I think it 
probable." 

"Why is that, sir?" asked Redmond. 

"She would need a very secure place to park her own private car, 
one where there was no risk it would be found," said Cord. "To the NVA 
during the revolution, Colonel, vehicles were almost as precious a 
commodity as guns and ammunition. It was very much like living in the 
old Wild West where one's life depended in equal measure on one's gun 
and one's horse, and we learned to keep both very close. We never liked 
to park our cars and be separated from our transport for any length of 
time. Never knew when we might need to make a fast break. Instead of 
parking our vehicle in some remote spot and hoping it wouldn't be 
found by the police, or towed away, or stripped by Third World thieves, 
we always liked to do a hand-over to another Volunteer when it was 
necessary to change into something more suitable for the job at hand. 
Then we'd arrange for pickup or to trade cars again afterwards. It didn't 
always work out that way, of course. Sometimes we had no choice but 
to stash a car for a while. But we preferred not to, and so that's why I 
think it is not only possible but somewhat likely that Miss Greiner was 
supposed to hand over her Nissan to someone else in exchange for the 
van." 

"Mmmm, I see your point, sir," said Redmond, rubbing his chin. 
Oh, hell, he thought. Let's get it over with and hope the tirade isn't so 
had. "Doctor Cord, as reluctant as I am to introduce a religious aspect 
into this inquiry, are you aware of the fact that Commandant Thomas 
Murdock was apparently a follower of the old gods of the Norse 
mythology? Whereas Melanie Young was a Fundamentalist Christian?" 

"Murdock was a pagan?" scoffed Cord skeptically. "I don't 
believe it! Surely he would have said something to me about it!" 

"Ah, well, perhaps it's just a rumor." said Redmond in some 
relief. "Unfortunately, I believe the well known liaison between 
Murdock and Volunteer Young was not mere rumor. We have become 
very interested in the personal relationship between Commandant 



H. A. Covington 

Murdock, Volunteer Greiner. and Volunteer Young. Specifically, we 
understand that Murdock had been personally involved with Trudy 
Greiner up until the time that Melanie Young arrived from Montana to 
take up her assignment with the Olympic Flying Column. Murdock 
then allegedly broke things off with Trudy and took up with Melanie. 
This romantic triangle aspect has been suggested to us as a possible 
motive for Volunteer Greiner's betrayal of the Column. What are your 
thoughts and observations on that?" 

Cord scowled. "I am ashamed to admit that entirely too often, 
our racial liberation movement was a revolting hotbed of unbridled 
lust." 

"Cies! What a recruiting incentive!" whispered Nel sotto voce. 
Redmond shushed him, but Cord rambled on, oblivious. "Yes, I was 
aware that Murdock and Miss Young were committing the sin of 
carnality in the unmarried state, and before that the Commandant was 
doing the same thing with Miss Greiner. I am sorry to say that sort of 
thing was quite common and one simply had to learn to look the other 
way in order to be effective. I was especially disappointed in Miss 
Young's wanton behavior, since she claimed to be a religious person. I 
attempted to speak to her about it on several occasions but she for 
some reason she seemed disinclined to discuss it with me." 

"Indeed?" said Redmond, his eyebrows arching. "One does 
wonder why?" 

I can only conclude that she retained at least some sense of 
shame regarding her carnal sin." replied Cord pompously. I hope that 
remedial diffidence has been sufficient to spare her some of the 
subsequent punishment she has endured in hell since her death in such 
a state of impurity." Nel opened his mouth to say something, but 
Redmond caught his eye and shook his head. "As to that motivating 
Miss Greiner to do what she did? Who knows why a woman does 
anything? They are ruled by their emotions and not by reason like men 
are, or most men anyway. But I should have thought that the million 
dollars she was paid would also have formed some part of her 
motivation." 



H. A. Covington 

All of a sudden there was a buzz on the intercom on Cord's desk. 
"Doctor Cord? I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but it looks like we're 
coming down to the kill on that Omni Twelve on orbital track 733," the 
young man on the other end told him. 

"You're sure?" asked Cord excitedly. 

"Affirmative, sir. The bogey is over Indonesia now and we've got 
Falcon Four closing on him." said the voice on the intercom. "The 
target will be within termination range in about nine minutes. I think 
you'd better come down to the control room." 

"I'm sorry. Colonel, but duty calls," said Cord, rising with 
alacrity. The prospect of imminent technology seemed to alter and 
revitalize him. "Want a ringside seat for one of the battles in the first 
war fought in space?" 

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Redmond. Despite Cord's 
irritating arrogance, Don was genuinely fascinated by anything to do 
with space and eager to learn more. 

They took a long elevator ride down to the control room. The 
Falcon program satellite command center was in a huge, cavernous 
chamber deep in the bowels of the earth, carpeted and air-conditioned 
and capable of surviving a direct hit with up to a forty megaton nuclear 
warhead, as Cord informed them proudly. The whole forward wall of 
the long room now showed the blue curvature of the earth, filling the 
lower left hand third of the giant screen. A small light blinked among 
the stars above the inverted blue bowl at about two o'clock. 

Cord took them into a glassed-in booth that contained several 
banks of screens and instruments. The scientist seated himself in front 
of a control panel and began flicking switches and pressing buttons. He 
assumed a professorial and somewhat condescending tone. "What you 
are seeing, gentleman, is a fighter's-eye view of war in space. This 
telemetry is coming from one of our unmanned Falcon orbital 
interception modules. That's our target." said Cord intently, pointing at 
the blinking light. "In this view we are filtering out all the assorted 
space junk surrounding the target, so we can concentrate on it, 
although if something gets in the way it will appear on the screen. We 
have been pursuing an American spy satellite, an Omni Twelve, 



H. A. Covington 

launched in July from Canaveral. One of their newest and most 
sophisticated. Chinese technology and Korean manufacture. The 
Americans seem incapable of actually building anything advanced for 
themselves any more. It is run by an artificial intelligence chip designed 
by Dr. Saul Bloomberg of MIT, a gentleman of Hebraic heritage who is 
one of our worst enemies. Dr. Bloomberg has openly dedicated his life 
to erasing the Northwest Republic from the face of the earth, as he 
blames us for the loss of his precious goddamned Israel." 

"Blames us with some reason, I am happy to say," said 
Redmond with a proud snarl. 

"Indeed. You might say he is my opposite number. Bloomie and 
I spend our lives destroying one another's work. He creates avionic 
polymers and amalgams he thinks to be plasma-proof, the Americans 
build aircraft and I create new plasma synergies to break through 
whatever they've come up with. That's what I was doing when you 
interrupted me just now. Bloomie thinks his Compound 19 will restore 
American air supremacy so they can slaughter us all from the sky with 
impunity like we were so many Arabs. We will see how well Compound 
19 holds up against my Green Magic ray. I think he and a few hapless 
American pilots are in for a surprise. Bloomberg doesn't play fair, 
though. The little kike has tried to have me assassinated, twice. By the 
by, Colonel, next time you see Mr. Randall, please thank him again for 
saving my life on that second occasion. That American idiot with his 
grenade destroyed one of my computer drives and I lost some data. It 
was very annoying." 

"I will, Doctor," promised Redmond. "Two times? I'm 
impressed. I've only rated three attempts myself." 



H. A. Covington 

"Now, sir, let's not get boastful, ek se, " warned Nel sot to voce. 
"I don't think he likes the idea of being outdone in anything by a mere 
copper. By the way, when do we ask him about how he got into the NVA 
in the old days?" 

"Do you really want to sit through that?" Don whispered back. 

"Point taken, sir." Egotist though he was, Cord was too involved 
with his instruments and the screen to take umbrage at Redmond being 
one up on him in the assassination attempt department. "We've been 
tracking that Ugly Bird for weeks, trying to get one of our Falcons 
within range," Cord told them. "It's quite a game, since neither of the 
craft has a milligram of fuel to waste and every maneuver must be 
calculated to the last micron." 

"Rather than waste time in all this hanna-hanna and dancing 
about, why not hunt these spy satellites down and pick them off with 
plasma weapons from a manned craft?" asked Nel. 

"Because they've started arming these little guys with counter- 
weapons that might hull one of our vessels and get some of our 
astronauts killed," said Cord. "The State President has decided that's an 
escalation we want to avoid. The problem is, it's entirely too easy to get 
killed in space and there would eventually be fatalities. If they kill any 
of our space crews we'll have to retaliate by taking out some of theirs. 
You know the iron rule: no one lays a hand on any of our Republic's 
people, anywhere, anytime." 

"We just got a reminder of that from talking to Bloody Dave 
Leach," said Redmond. 

"Yes, David practices what he preaches, as you know. As the 
good burghers of Wellington, New Zealand found out. And to think I 
knew him when he was a mere homicidal maniac! So far, the shooting 
part of the space war is only between unmanned robot vehicles, and 
apparently ZOG is willing to keep it that way. For now." 

"Good," said Redmond with a sigh of relief. "My son Allan is at 
Landfall Station on Mars. He's coming home soon and I want to be sure 
his shuttle has a nice, quiet re-entry." 

"Luftwaffe Captain Allan Redmond?" asked Cord. "Why yes, I 
believe I remember him. He was on several of my training courses in 



The Hill of the Ravens 

astronavigation and spatial engineering. Very bright young man." 

"So what's happening now?" asked Nel. 

"Intercepting a satellite in orbit when it is trying to evade you 
isn't an easy thing to do by remote telemetry, gentlemen." said Cord. 
"You have all kinds of variables of gravity, trajectory, inertia, orbital 
centrifugal force, acceleration and deceleration to take into 
consideration. All that can get even more complicated when the target 
is equipped with various devices to escape and confuse pursuit, like this 
one is." 

"What kind of devices?" asked Nel curiously. 

"Radar scrambling and distortion equipment making it 
impossible for us to lock on to it, helium balloons made of thin metal 
envelopes that surround the vehicle, create false images and serve as 
decoys," said Cord, studying the screen and the instruments intently. 
"But they've now got a new wrinkle. That Ugly Bird can squirt a sort of 
smoke screen of silver nitrate particles that effectively blinds our radar 
for several minutes, almost like an octopus in the sea squirting ink to 
blind and confuse a predator while it escapes. Under cover of the silver 
nitrate cloud the Omni shifts direction a few degrees and assumes a 
whole new orbit, which we then have to plot out. Then we have to fire 
Falcon Four's retros in a controlled burn to resume an intercept path 
and bring it within range of the Falcon's plasma gun and laser. From 
the enemy's point of view, the name of the game is for the target 
satellite to make like a jack rabbit, try to run us to death, exhaust our 
tracker's fuel, thus losing it until we can get a manned shuttle to pick 
the Falcon up from orbit and refuel it, then re-launch it. But this bird 
hasn't done that for a while now. We think he's out of smoke. Now 
we're close enough to try and nail him, but he is most likely also 
equipped with detectors that sense particle beam fire and set off a small 
gas-powered gyroscope that gives the satellite a short jerk or shift up, 
or down, right or left. Sometimes only an inch two, not enough actually 
to alter the orbit, but enough to avoid a particle beam that's only a few 
millimeters wide. That satellite can literally dodge bullets, Colonel, and 
I don't feel like wasting the Falcon's plasma charges on it. Falcon has a 
laser as well, but I'd have to get a wee bit closer than I'd like to try and 



H. A. Covington 

use it. It would be close enough so debris and shock from the explosion 
of the Omni might damage our own bird, not to mention any counter- 
weapons they might use. The laser beam is only a pin's width and it's 
possible we might not disable or destroy the enemy while depleting our 
own vehicle's power resources. We'll save the beams for taking out less 
athletic targets. Plus our own bird may need that juice to defend itself 
against an American interceptor later." 

"So what will you do?" asked Nel. 

"Torpedo the bastard," replied Cord. 

"Eh?" exclaimed Nel. 

"Falcon Four is also equipped with eight solid-fuel rocket 
torpedoes, two meters in length, each with a 10-kilogram warhead of 
plastic explosive wrapped with steel bands which will provide a wide 
spread of shrapnel. Even if we don't get a direct hit, detonate the 
warhead close enough and a blast of several thousand hot metal shards 
the size of birdshot going through the skin of that Ugly Bird should take 
it out of action, render it just so much dead flying junk. But let's go for a 
direct hit, shall we? I feel like seeing something vaporized. And I want 
Bloomie to see a nice big explosion." 

"Eh?" asked Redmond. 

"Right now Bloomberg is sitting in Canaveral behind the 
controls of that Omni, just as I am here. I can sense his presence. Good. 
I am going to break his toy." Cord spoke into a microphone. "Ready 
torpedos one and two!" 

"Aye aye, Herr Oberst!" came a voice on the intercom. Cord 
looked up and grinned like a little boy. "I like to imagine I'm a U-boat 
captain in the North Atlantic, part of a Wolfpack zeroing in on an 
American convoy. Or maybe Walther Schweiger lining the Lusitania up 
in my sights during the first war! On these occasions my staff is kind 
enough to oblige me." He turned back to his controls and monitors. 

"Does he still play with boats in the bathtub. I wonder?" 
wondered Nel in a whisper. 

"He's a bit hard to take, that I grant you," whispered Redmond. 
"But this is all very real, and dammit all, as much as he pisses me off, I 
have to admit that if there's any one man the Republic owes its 



The Hill of the Ravens 

existence to, it's Cord. Not even the Old Man. The Old Man gave us an 
idea, but Cord was the one who brought down the bombers. Napoleon 
once said that revolution is an idea that has found bayonets. The Old 
Man gave us the idea. Cord gave us the bayonets." 

"Torpedos ready, Dr. Cord," a scientist in a lab coat several 
chairs away said, staring into his own console. 

"Fire one and two!" shouted Cord gleefully. Two spinning 
glowing spots of fire seemed to whirl silently away from just below the 
camera's range and out over the brilliant curving blue and white cloud- 
fleece of the earth. Redmond would have thought they would head 
directly for the light of the target satellite, but they seemed actually to 
be spiraling down towards the earth. Then the lights blinked out and 
for almost a minute there was silence except for low electronic bleeps 
and pings from the equipment. 

"Ugly's firing retros, sir," said one of the console people, a 
woman. "He sees the torpedos and he's taking evasive action. One and 
two auto-correcting." 

Redmond could not detect any motion at all in the light of the 
American satellite on the screen. Then all of a sudden it seemed to 
flicker. "Damn!"-said another one of the men in white lab coats. "Silver 
nitrate cloud, Doctor Cord! Looks like they weren't out after all. Radar's 
real patchy, can't get a solid fix. Torpedos twenty-eight point four miles 
and closing" 

"Give me manual," commanded Cord. "I'll try and bracket him." 
Cord coolly and swiftly moved levers, pushed buttons, and rode a small 
joystick. There were several brief dual bursts, pinpoints of light on the 
screen as the NAR rocket torpedos fired and changed course. "I need to 
get those two torpedos on either side of Ugly Bird and blow them 
simultaneously," he muttered by way of explanation. "Like swatting a 
fly by clapping your two hands together. Now, is Bloomberg dropping 
the orbit or raising it? Aryans are spiritual beings and our minds 
naturally rise to the heavens. Jews are materialists and in a crunch they 
automatically gravitate towards the earth. Bloomberg is going down. In 
every sense of the term." 



H. A. Covington 

Redmond and Nel stared at one another. A woman scientist in a 
lab coat leaned over. "Metaphysical astrogation," she whispered. "He 
does that all the time. He sometimes calculates interplanetary range 
and distance in Biblical cubits. The hell of it is, more often than not he's 
right. He's probably right this time." Suddenly Cord touched a button 
and there were two twin blasts on the screen, like the popping of two 
flash bulbs. A moment after that there was a gigantic blaze of blue- 
white light that blotted out the huge screen. It was almost five seconds 
before the earth appeared again, and this time the blackness above the 
glowing bowl of Terra was empty except for the stars. A wild cheer 
arose from the dozen or so people behind the consoles in the control 
room, and several of them stepped forward to shake Cord's hand and 
pound him on the back in joy. "One of those was a direct hit, sir!"* 
yelled one of the technicians. 

"Congratulations. Doctor Cord!" said Redmond in genuine 
admiration. 

Cord grinned at him. "I have been up on the shuttles and the 
space stations over two dozen times,*" he told the two BOSS men. "Saul 
Bloomberg has never left the earth. Now you know why. One day I hope 
to meet him in space." 

"We keep getting back to that crucial four hours between three 
and seven in the morning. Now we have another question to answer," 
said Redmond as they were leaving the space center. 

"And that is?*' asked Nel. 

"Who. if anyone, was Trudy Greiner meeting to deliver the 
ambulance van? Why exactly didn't Trudy Greiner show up at the aid 
station to help with the wounded like she was supposed to? Was the 
van not where it was supposed to be? Joseph Cord's statement backs up 
Leach's. Trude was supposed to be at the Burger Boy in Poulsbo at 
seven in the morning sharp. Why wasn't she there?" 

"Because she knew what was going to happen?" suggested Nel. 
"Because she really was the traitor and she was busy collecting her I 
lillion dollar reward? Sir, nothing we have uncovered thus far in any 
way indicates to me that the Greiner woman was not the informant, 
just as history tells us she was." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"She was supposed to be there at seven in the morninsz. She 
wasn't there. That means something serious," asserted Redmond. 
"Punctuality was a survival skill in those days. You were never late, the 
only acceptable excuses being death or arrest. The survival of the whole 
unit and beyond that the fate of our whole people depended on a 
Volunteer being wherever he or she said they'd be, exactly when they 
said they'd be. So what delayed her? Was it guilty knowledge? But even 
if she was the traitor, why draw immediate suspicion to herself? She 
could have shown up at the aid station and once the disaster became 
known she could have gotten away on the pretext that she was going to 
her first E & E point like Leach and Cord did. No, I have a gut feeling 
that for some reason Trudy Greiner ran into trouble after she left the 
Hoodsport safe house." 

"What kind of trouble?" asked Nel. 

"Trouble from whoever was delivering that medivac van to her. 
There's someone else involved in this, someone whose name we don't 
yet know." 



The Ancient Days bookshop stood gabled and awninged at the 
corner of Main and Tower Streets in the middle of Centralia's 
meticulously restored historic district of mellow red brick and brick- 
cobbled streets. It was a large, comfortable place, redolent with mellow 
incense, fine carpet and the delightful smell all true bibliophiles crave, 
that only comes from generously stocked shelves of books. The walls 
were lined with row after row of volumes on ancient Celtic and Nordic 
religions, Wicca, magic and paranormal subjects, Tarot and astrology. 
The center spaces of the shop contained glass display cases and tables 
of jewelry, ritual objects used in the practice of the old religious 
ceremonies, and other nick-nacks. Sticks of fragrant jasmine and 
sandalwood smoked in discreet joss burners in various corners, and a 
log fire crackled in a brass Franklin stove against one wall. "We admit, 
we try for a 1960s ambience," Brittany McCanless told them. "Yes, 
granted it was a degenerate period in most ways. But there was a 



H. A. Covington 

beginning of an occult racial awakening among the Folk. True spiritual 
enlightenment eventually leads down the path of Nature, and Nature 
leads directly to the truth of Blood." 

"Hell, you might as well," chuckled Don. "Half our population 
dresses from the 1930s and the other half from the 1890s, and a few old 
eccentrics like Lars Frierson go for the 1970s look. One of our freedoms 
in the NAR seems to be the freedom to pick whatever era of the past 
you're most comfortarjle in." 

"And why not? America forced an ugly and unwanted future on 
the Folk, so why should we now not be able to choose a more beautiful 
and desirable past in some respects, if that is what we wish?" asked 
Brittany with a smile. She was a slim and graceful woman with long 
iron-gray hair done in a single long braid down her back. She had to be 
well into her sixties at least, but she looked at least twenty years 
younger. She was wearing a long woolen gown with embroidered full 
sleeves. Her husband Ed McCanless was dressed in a more modern 
tweed jacket, with a Western string tie. He sported a neatly trimmed 
white Imperial beard. They both wore the green, white and blue ribbon 
of the War of Independence, Ed on his lapel and Brittany on her bodice. 
Beside those were the small red, black and white everyday-wear rondels 
of the Iron Cross, earned on the day they had driven the mortar truck 
into the Federal Special Criminal Court in Port Orchard. Don had read 
the official reports. He had seen the old photographs of them taken by 
the enemy. He could almost close his eyes and see this elderly couple in 
those days, he tall and strong like some gallowglass of old Ulster, she a 
magnificent Valkyrie with long hair flying in the wind of battle. Don 
could almost see and hear the guns blazing in their hands as they 
covered Saltovic and Palmieri while they rammed the truck into the 
courthouse, set the detonator and ran for the battered Oldsmobile. 
Four of them! thought Don in utter shame and despair. Ten to one! 
After all their brothers and sisters were slaughtered, the four of them 
went into that town and fought forty of those yellow cur dogs who 
served red-white-and-blue Amurrica. Gun to gun, hand to hand. And 
now I come into their home to question them, to bring into doubt the 



The Hill of the Ravens 

whole fabric of their lives. Dear God, how dare I? Who the hell am I to 
so much as bend my head in their direction? 

The four of them sat in a small living room off the main shop 
floor and Brittany poured them camomile tea from a large, freshly 
brewed brown clay pot. There was also a plate of highly tasty cookies 
made of organic brown wheat flour and honey. Nel held his teacup and 
saucer delicately in his hand, somewhat put off by the outre and 
mystical surroundings. Clearly your basic fish and chips man, thought 
Redmond in amusement. "It's always good to have an old comrade stop 
by, Colonel," said Brittany. "Even if it is on official business." 

"Tell me, does another of your old comrades ever stop by?" 
asked Redmond. "I refer to Dr. Joseph Cord from the Space Center? 
Seeing as how he's in the area, surely he must drop by occasionally to 
hash over old times? Not to mention this superb camomile?" 

"I'm sure Sarah's is just as good," said Brittany. 

"Well, yes," admitted Redmond. "I'm sure she'd want me to say 
hello, by the by. Does Doctor Cord ever drop in?" he persisted. 

"Holy Jde? Not likely," replied Ed dryly. "As far as Joe Cord is 
concerned, we are Satan's emissaries on earth. We haven't spoken in 
years. Every now and then we see him on the sidewalk here in 
Centralia. He crosses the street to avoid us." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Redmond, shaking his head. 
"Religious differences aside, that is not the way to treat former 
comrades from the Volunteers." 

"That's just Joe," said McCanless with a shrug. "He's always 
been a bit of an eccentric." 

"He's always been a bit of an asshole." corrected Brittany with a 
sweet smile. 

"Let's be fair to the man. Brit." sighed Ed. "Joe was a loyal 
Volunteer, and for an egghead he never lacked courage. Courage among 
white men was in rather short supply back then, and he should get 
credit for that. He's a brilliant scientist and his plasma weapons are the 
main reason we're all sitting here and we weren't bombed into craters 
by the United States Air Force. But yes. to be absolutely truthful he's 
also an insufferable asshole. Anybody who knows him can tell you that. 



H. A. Covington 

It's customary to make allowances for genius, I know, but in Joe's case 
one has to make a lot of allowances." 

"Did Dr. Cord feel the same way about you during the War of 
Independence?" asked Redmond carefully. "Not just you personally, I 
mean did he seem to have issued with comrades who followed the old 
gods, or who were atheists or agnostics?" 

"He was pretty much the same back then as he is now. yes," 
replied Brittany McCanless. "That's very sad. in a way. One is supposed 
to use one's journey through life to grow in a spiritual sense, Colonel. 
Joe has spent his life accumulating a vast amount of knowledge of the 
universe without, and not a lot in the way of understanding the 
universe within. His is a very tragic karma, when one thinks about it." 

"But again, since this seems to be my day to play Devil's 
advocate, we have to give the pompous ass his due," put in Ed 
McCanless. "He did his duty well then as now, and as much as we 
disliked him even then, we knew that when the chips were down he 
would have been there for us, as we would have been there for him. As 
it turns out, that situation occurred on more than one occasion. Joe 
saved both our lives once, for which we will always be grateful, and we 
saved his life once, which I am sure embarrasses and bothers the hell 
out of him to this day." 

"You folks get much trouble from the Holy Ghost crowd these 
days?" asked Redmond. 

"Mostly just empty threats," said Brittany. "We ignore them. 
Once our eldest boy Siegfried caught one of our local Bible-punchers 
spray-painting "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live' on the side of the 
store. Sieg was on leave from the SS and he'd just completed a hand-to- 
hand course, and so he broke a few bones the man of God didn't need. 
The preacher man squawked for the Civil Guard, the cop came and saw 
what he'd been doing, and so the officer slapped him around some 
more before loading him into an ambulance. For some reason we 
haven't had any trouble to speak of since then." 

"Every now and then one of them comes by waving tracts and 
tries to save our souls," said Ed. "We invite them in for tea and spend a 
pleasant hour or so messing with their minds. But to be fair, when they 



The Hill of the Ravens 

see our War of Independence ribbons they usually calm down. Hellfire 
and brimstone aside, even the ones who think we're Satanic respect 
that little bit of cloth. I'd also like to say that with the exception of Joe 
Cord, neither Brit nor I have ever gotten any disrespect from any of our 
Christian brothers and sisters in arms who went through that war with 
us. The few problems we get come from new immigrants or from 
woodchucks." 

"We're both woodchucks ourselves, dear," his wife reminded 
him gently. 

"Yes, I know, but you know what I mean." 

"Daryl and his other brother Daryl?" asked Redmond. 

"Who?" asked Nel curiously. 

"It's an old Northwest expression from Migration times," 
explained Redmond. "It means native-born Northwest country yokel 
types. I have no idea on earth where it originated. There is another one 
some of our settlers would use sometimes, DM, which means Drooling 
Moron. That is a mortal insult and is accepted by our courts as 
constituting fighting words, as you know, along with whigger. Not to 
mention being a disgraceful slur against any racial brother or sister 
against whom it is directed." 

"It's not really the country yokels who give trouble so much as it 
is the descendants of the wealthier families who lived in the Northwest 
before the Migration started," added McCanless. "You know there is 
still an undercurrent of resentment among those who were part of the 
old ruling elite, the bankers and lawyers and such who made money 
under the United States regime and who still resent being relegated to 
the status of mere white people." 

"Yeah, we get some of that in BOSS." agreed Redmond with a 
nod. "Every now and then we crack an espionage or subversion case 
involving people who still hold a grudge from the American time, 
mostly older ones who only remember all the luxury toys and crap their 
rich parents gave them as kids. That's pretty much dying out now. My 
kids are woodchucks themselves and so are yours. Interestingly, those 
few cases of disloyalty among pre-revolutionary residents are more 
than counterbalanced by the thousands of people who fled from the 



H. A. Covington 

Republic when we took over, and have since come back Home. Or their 
children who have returned. They have enough horror stories to tell 
about life in the wonderful United States to shut up the last of the 
disgruntled Gawd Bless Amurrica types." 

"So, why did you want to see us, Colonel?" asked Ed anxiously. 
"I hate to sound paranoid, but it's not about that asinine plot to murder 
Pastor Briggs, is it? We barely knew Mr. Andrews, although of course 
we have heard about his arrest, and those of the others. I promise you 
that we utterly condemn what he was planning and we would have 
nothing to do with any violence against other white people, whatever 
their religious views. Or violence against anybody. All that is over for 
us." 

"Remember that rock song from the last century that goes 'Now 
you 're old and gray, Fernando, it's many years since I have seen a 
rifle in your hand?' said Brittany with a smile. "That's Ed and me. I 
don't even know if we still have any guns around. We gave them all to 
our kids. I think Siegfried still carries my old Glock nine-mil as a 
vehicle weapon." 

"Well, that may not be completely true," demurred Ed. "I think 
I've still got that old Ruger Mini-14 I toted during the war up in the 
attic somewhere. But it's an antique, probably rusted solid by now. 
Probably blow up in my face if I tried to fire it, even if I could find some 
ammunition for it. Anyway, when we did fight, it was to put a stop to 
just that kind of thing. Hatred between white people. Like this Andrews 
business. Straight up, Colonel, we had nothing to do with that crap and 
we wouldn 7 have anything to do with anything like that!" McCanless 
was clearly on the defensive. 

"No, believe me, if your names had come up in relation to that 
case, you would have seen me here before this, and I wouldn't be sitting 
here drinking your tea," Redmond assured them. "My reason for being 
here has to do with something in the past. I'm here to talk to you about 
the last days of the Olympic Flying Column." 

"Ah," said Ed glumly. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"That was a very sad and terrible event in our lives, Colonel," 
said Brittany quietly. "May I ask what possible interest state security 
could have in it today?" 

"I am interviewing all the survivors of the Column," said 
Redmond. 

"Why?" asked Ed bluntly. 

"Usually a cop keeps as much information back as he can, as 
leverage, but in this investigation I have made it a policy to be 
completely open with all of you as to the purpose of my questions," said 
Redmond. "The State President has received a communication from 
Trudy Greiner, a communication that we believe to be authentic. She 
alleges that she is innocent of the charge of treason and she is Coming 
Home on October 22 nd . She is demanding a public trial on the charges 
against her.*' 

"Trudy is Coming Home?" gasped Brittany. "She says she's 
innocent?" 

"And if she is, that means one of us has to be guilty," grated Ed 
harshly. 

"Bluntly, yes, that's what it looks like," said Redmond. 

"That can't be," said Brittany quietly. "I'm sorry, sir, but you are 
wrong. That cannot possibly be. It must not be." 

"I hope there's some way out of this particular maze, ma'am," 
replied Don. "I am here to learn if that is possible. Sergeant Nel and I 
are conducting interviews with all of the survivors of the Olympic 
Flying Column, and we are taking a similar tack with all of you. The 
first thing I would like to know is some general background, how each 
of your became involved with the Party and the NVA, and... " There was 
a little tinkle from the bell over the shop door. 

"I'll get it," said Ed, rising. "Excuse me, Colonel." 

"Of course," replied Don. Ed McCanless got up and went out 
onto the shop floor to deal with his customer. His wife Brittany leaned 
forward. 

"I'm glad Ed is gone, Colonel, because I need to answer your 
question before he comes back," she said urgently, putting her hand on 
Don's wrist. Don remembered Palmieri's description of that same hand 



H. A. Covington 

on his wrist over thirty years before in the Port Orchard diner as being 
like a vice grip. It was not like that now, but somehow just as strong 
and urgent. "The whole topic upsets my husband and enrages him even 
to this day, and he is reaching an age where extreme emotional 
disturbance can cause him serious problems with his health. You asked 
how we became involved. I will tell you very quickly, and then when Ed 
comes back, please don't refer to it. Please?" 

"I understand," said Don with a nod. 

"I grew up in Seattle." Brittany told them. "My parents were 
yuppies, my mother worked all day at a high-powered white-collar job 
just like my father, and so for all practical purposes I had no parents. I 
was what was then known as a latchkey kid. My childhood was 
completely aimless. I had too much money, too little love, and too 
much time on my own. From there it was straight into the drugs. Booze 
at twelve, marijuana at thirteen, ecstasy at fourteen, cocaine at fifteen, 
crack at sixteen, and heroin at seventeen. Seventeen was my bad year. 
To this very day, I am astounded by the fact that I ever lived to see my 
eighteenth birthday. I went to the wrong party one night, I snorted and 
shot up the wrong drugs, and I ended up in a Cadillac tooling down 
Interstate Five south towards Portland. There were six people in that 
Caddy, five niggers and me. They pulled off the interstate at the 
Highway Twelve exit going towards Aberdeen. At that time there was 
an abandoned gas station about half a mile down Highway Twelve, and 
that's where the blacks took me. They had been there before and so 
they had a key. We were all there for the next twenty-four hours. I think 
you can guess what they did to me, which was everything. Then they 
left me there for dead. I damned near was. I had a number of broken 
bones and severe internal bleeding and organ damage." 

"Oh, Christ!" moaned Don. "Ma'am, I... " 

"Don't be stupid!" she ordered briskly. "It was half a century ago 
and if I hadn't learned to accept it and to live with it, I wouldn't be here. 
After another twenty-four hours or so I was able to crawl out of the 
building to the highway. A motorist saw me in his headlights just before 
he ran over me. He stopped and called for help. A team of paramedics 
from Tenino responded. There was also a Thurston County sheriffs 



The Hill of the Ravens 

deputy with them, a young man of twenty-two, just out of his training 
course in Olympia, and this was his first night duty. That young man's 
name was Ed McCanless. I'd tell you all the rest, but I don't have time. 
Colonel, whatever else you must ask us over this Trudy Greiner 
business, can we leave the so-called background out when my husband 
returns?" 

"You got it," said Redmond. 

"Absolutely," agreed Nel. 

Ed McCanless returned and sat down again. "Young woman. 
Sold a Crowley Thoth Tarot deck and a pack of black votive candles," he 
said to Brittany. 

"She's casting a curse, or trying to," said Brittany. "Do you know 
her?" 

"She's a friend of Danielle Haywood's," said Ed. "Don't know 
her name." 

"The little black-haired girl?" asked Brittany. 

"Yup." 

"I'll get in touch with Danielle and see what I can do to put a 
stop to whatever she's planning," said Brittany. She looked at the men. 
"Poor kid is probably upset because a man dumped her and now she's 
going to try and get even with him or with the girl she was dumped for, 
or both. That's no reason to start cutting loose with negative psychic 
energy. I try to be responsible, Colonel. I'd appreciate it if you would 
mention that fact to Sarah." 

"I will, ma'am," Don assured her. He knew that his wife was an 
extremely high-ranking priestess in the Wiccan community. Sarah 
seldom volunteered information on that part of her life, and he never 
asked. Theirs was an ancient division of labor in Aryan marriages since 
the beginning of time. Don was the man and he dealt with the material 
world, while Sarah was the woman who dealt with the home, the 
spiritual and metaphysical aspects of life. "I would like to ask you some 
things about the meeting which took place in the safe house in 
Hoodsport the night before the Ravenhill incident." 

"When they were setting up the attack on the Special Criminal 
Court in Port Orchard, yes. I remember. I was security officer for that 



H. A. Covington 

meeting," said Ed. "I followed SOP to the letter. I had some of the latest 
anti-bugging detection gear our geeky science kids had come up with, 
and I swept the whole house for any hidden microphones or fiber 
optics. There was nothing. Then when our people arrived I swept them 
for bugs and made sure everyone's cell phone was turned off when they 
entered the house." 

"Including Trudy Greiner's phone?" asked Redmond. 

"Yes, although in her case it wasn't necessary since hers was on 
the fritz anyway. She had some Chinese off-brand phone and the 
communication satellite it was routed through had crashed into the 
ocean that morning. The chinks were never as on top of their space 
program as we are. Colonel, as lame as this sounds in view of what 
happened that morning, I want you to know that J did my job! I will 
swear on my deathbed that no one in that house during that sitdown 
was wired or made any kind of contact with anyone they shouldn't have 
been in contact with!" 

"Trudy Greiner arrived at the safe house at what time?" asked 
Redmond. 

"Ah, a little before one o'clock in the morning. I believe." 
recalled McCanless. "She was coming from Bremerton." 

"And she left when?" 

"Sometime around three o'clock. She was supposed to be 
helping Joe Cord and Dave Leach at the emergency aid station which 
was somewhere to the north." 

"Poulsbo," Brittany reminded him. 

"Yes, of course you're correct, my love." acknowledged 
McCanless with a nod. "My understanding is that she didn't show-up." 

"And she left in her own car, a white Nissan?" asked Nel. 

"Yes, so I recall," said McCanless. "Why? Where did she go?" 

"We don't know. That vehicle was never found, either by us or 
so far as we can tell by the local authorities or the Feds either. Mr. 
McCanless, I know this was a very long time ago, but please try and 
remember. We know that someone called Major Woodrow Coleman of 
the FATPOs at almost precisely two o'clock that morning." said 
Redmond. "Did Trudy Greiner leave the room where the meeting was 



The Hill of the Ravens 

being held around that time, even for a few moments? Or anyone else, 
for that matter?" 

McCanless shook his head. "Colonel, I know it seems odd for me 
to insist that after all these years I can be positive, but I was security 
officer in charge of monitoring the meeting and I was also a former 
policeman, trained to be on the lookout for anything unusual. I meant 
what I said. I am willing to take my oath even today that no one in that 
house made any kind of call without my knowledge, nor was anyone out 
of my line of sight long enough to do so." 

"Something else has come up," said Redmond. "Mrs. 
McCanless, were either of you aware of the fact that while Melanie 
Young was an openly committed Christian, according to our 
information Tom Murdock was a follower of the Aesir?" 

"It was fairly common knowledge, yes, among those of us who 
took an interest in the spiritual aspect of the struggle," said Brittany. 
"Most didn't. Most of the Volunteers were simply ordinary white people 
who had finally had enough of America's shit. They only knew that they 
would rather die than live one more day under ZOG and they didn't 
care what God or gods any other white man or woman worshipped." 

"Did anyone in the Column take an undue interest or offense at 
the, ah, metaphysical incongruities involved in the Murdock-Melanie 
situation? Did Joseph Cord do so, for example?" 

"Back to Joe Cord again, eh?" said McCanless with a wry smile. 
"He must have really pissed you off." 

"Mmm, well... yeah, kind of," admitted Redmond with sigh. 

"Don't sweat it. He pisses everybody off. I see where you are 
leading, Colonel," said McCanless. "All I can tell you is that you're 
wrong. Joe Cord's eccentricities in the religious department were just 
that, eccentricities. They would never involve treason. As much as I 
dislike the man, I will swear that's the truth." 

"And no one else seemed to object?" pressed Redmond. 

"No one else cared, Colonel. Just as no one ought to care today. 
We were rather too busy most of the time to worry about such things at 
all," said McCanless. "In case you have forgotten, there was a rather 
large army of political gangsters trying to kill us all." 



H. A. Covington 

Redmond changed tack. "Mrs. McCanless, one of the things that 
we are trying to explore as extensively as it's possible to do after all 
these years is the exact nature of the personal relationship between 
Tom Murdock, Trudy Greiner, and Melanie Young. From what we have 
been able to gather it sounds rather like a typical love triangle, but of 
course under those conditions nothing was typical." 

"Looking for a motive for Trudy to betray the Column?" asked 
Brittany. 

"Let's just say I am trying to understand the whole situation. 
Scope the big picture, so to speak. You were with Murdock longer than 
most and you're also a woman. Can you give me any informed insight 
on that aspect of things?" 

"You mean was there the occasional bit of girl talk between me 
and Trude and Melanie?" asked Brittany with a rueful smile. 

"Exactly, ma'am," said Redmond imperturbably. 

"Well, yes. There was some. First off, Melanie Young loved Tom 
Murdock with a love that was utterly incandescent, and he returned 
that love. I have never seen anything like it, before or since. That part of 
our national legend is one hundred per cent true. As for Trudy? She 
was a brave and noble woman and she ended up being an also-ran, 
which humiliation I never believed she deserved. I will tell you quite 
frankly that when Tom Murdock left her for Melanie Young, Trudy was 
utterly devastated. And do you know what she did?" 

"What, ma'am?" asked Redmond. 

"She ate it, Colonel," said Brittany. "She took it right on the chin 
and she drove on. We had a world to win and personal considerations 
were secondary. Because her role in life was not of the heart, it was of 
the blood, and she knew that and accepted it. Trudy Greiner was a 
political soldier of the Aryan race, Colonel Redmond, at least up until 
the time she betrayed us all, if indeed she did so. It is part of a soldier's 
duty to endure pain. Pain of all kinds. Insofar as I could tell, Trudy 
endured the pain of Tom Murdock and Melanie Young as she would 
have endured any bullet or shrapnel wound." 

"There is one other thing that I need to ask you about," said 
Redmond. "I apologize yet again for raking up these particular dry old 



The Hill of the Ravens 

bones, but one never knows just what may prove to be relevant. It is my 
understanding that before you joined the Party, both of you were briefly 
members of the Pierce cult." 

"Yes, that's true," admitted Ed. "If you found that in our files 
then you also know that back at the turn of the century, Pierce was all 
there was. The Northwest Migration was only just beginning to appear 
on the radar screen by the middle of the first decade. We were 
associated with the cult for less than a year, and we both immediately 
resigned when it finally came out after his death that William Pierce 
had been a long-term Federal government informant, as did virtually 
everyone else involved who had any sense of decency or integrity. The 
day after our resignations Brit and myself called the Old Man, 
explained who we were, and offered our services. He accepted. We have 
been completely devoted to the Party ever since. We have had no 
contact with the remnants of the Piercies since then except very 
occasionally, and then we urged them to drop all that crap, quit fooling 
around, and Come Home." 

"You know what the weirdest thing about all that is, to me?" put 
in Brittany. "The fact is that to this very day, there are still some poor, 
wretched white people living in what's left of the United States who 
refuse to Come Home, who denounce the Republic because it isn't all of 
America. We're not ideologically pure, you see." 

"Well, we're not," laughed Nel. 

"No, Sergeant, we're not," agreed Brittany with a smile. "That's 
what so bemuses me. The fact is that Pierce succeeded in his odd way. 
There are still a few tragic old people who think he's the Messiah, some 
kind of prophet who will somehow rise from the grave and restore all of 
America to our people at one magical swoop. They think that The 
Turner Diaries is just around the corner. They don't understand that 
it's already happened, right here in the Northwest, and they would 
rather live surrounded by the living mud than Come Home and give up 
their beloved illusions. It's so sad... " 

"Yes, ma'am, I am aware of that phenomenon," said Redmond. 
"I am also aware that in most cases it isn't quite as esoteric as you think 
with those people. I know because President Morgan gets hate mail 



H. A. Covington 

from the Piercies to this day, and it passes across my desk in case any of 
them might be nutty enough to try something, against him or against 
the Old Man. It's really the Old Man they hate. Every religion has to 
have its devil, its principle of ultimate evil, and the Old Man is the 
Pierce cult's devil. Has been for a very long time, even before the Old 
Man himself Came Home. He did the ultimate evil in their eyes. He 
proved that he was right, and their great guru William Pierce was 
wrong, and they will never forgive him for it. These people would quite 
literally rather exist in the living hell of multiracial America than Come 
Home and thereby admit that the Old Man was right. It is completely 
irrational, but then our race has always been capable of great 
irrationality. Now, I have a purely personal question, just to satisfy my 
own curiosity. You are practitioners of the Old Religion," said Redmond 
"What do you feel when you hear our National Anthem?" 

"Colonel, if you have read my file then you know that seven 
months after the Olympic Flying Column was destroyed, I was arrested 
in Spokane by the FBI," said Brittany. Ed started to say something. "Ed, 
no!" she said sharply. "You did absolutely the right thing when you 
turned and walked away back down the street! There were too many of 
them! If you had pulled down on them then we'd both be dead!" 

Ed started to say something, angry and upset and ashamed. 
Redmond raised his hand. "Sir, General Order Number Eight was not 
issued by the NVA for no reason. It was vitally necessary, and it was 
also an order. You were duty bound to obey it. Since you are both here 
and together, sir, it is entirely obvious to me that you did in fact do the 
right thing. Please continue, Mrs. McCanless." 

"They never bothered to charge me with anything. By that time 
we'd moved beyond all that legal bullshit. I was white, I had a gun, so I 
was a Jerry Reb, end of story. ZOG sent me to the women's camp in 
Pullman. I will not go into what happened to me. It was in some ways 
worse than what happened when I was seventeen, but it was long ago, it 
is over, and it's not important now. " She glanced over at her husband. 
"I will tell you that when I was in Pullman Federal Detention Facility, 
Cathy Frost was kept three cells down and across the corridor from me. 
The rest of us were warehoused in large bay-like cells with twenty or 



The Hill of the Ravens 

thirty women in each. Overcrowded, but you could at least stand up 
and move around a bit, sit against a wall and meditate, and we had a 
thin pallet each we could stretch out on. Cathy had her own cell, all four 
by four by four of it. Those monsters used to fold her up like paper 
when they'd finished with her, to stuff her back inside. Every third or 
fourth night, for six months, I heard the officers of the law of the 
United States of America come and take her to the interrogation room, 
where they desperately tried to force her to confess and name those 
whom they wanted her to name. And every night she was in there, at 
her own request, we did the only thing we could do for her. All night 
long, at three or four minute intervals necessary to recover our voices, 
all ninety women on that block sang. We sang with every ounce of our 
hearts and souls, our voices sometimes even drowning out the sound of 
her screams of mortal agony. Over and over again, we sang Cathy's 
favorite hymn. That was A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. 

"The Federal guards would come in and hit us with water hoses. 
They dragged us out of the cells by our hair and shocked us with 
electric cattle prods. They beat us with their nightsticks, with padlocks 
in socks, they flogged us with stretched-out wire coat hangers to try and 
silence us, but we kept singing, and after a time they stopped trying to 
prevent us. It was as if they understood that we would never be broken, 
and all of a sudden it was they who were afraid of us. We sang the hymn 
in English, and because there were women from many different nations 
among us, after a while we could sing it in the original German. In 
French. In Norwegian. In Russian. In Italian. In Polish. In Afrikaans. 
The words of that hymn are burned into my memory in a dozen 
languages. Cathy Frost was a believing Christian, and regardless of our 
own religious beliefs we all gave her without stint that which she 
needed to survive and triumph over what those beasts who wore suits 
as if they were men did to her. That hymn was a form of magic, Colonel. 
It was then and it is today. It was written by a great man who was 
touched with the divine spirit, and it was sanctified by centuries of 
faith. No, sir, I do not begrudge my Christian fellow citizens of this 
Republic one single word of our national anthem. Cathy Frost earned it 
for them. Every word, every note, every syllable. I sang it with pride 



H. A. Covington 

thirty-odd years ago, Colonel, as a Maiden. I sing it with pride today as 
a Crone. And I know that neither the God nor the Goddess take offense, 
for they were always admirers of courage wherever it is found." 



VIII. 



And now my boy, I've told you why on autumn morns I sigh, 

As I recall my comrades all from dark old days gone by. 

We fought the scum and made them run with rifle and grenade. 

May heaven keep the men who sleep from the ranks of the Old Brigade! 

Where are the men who stood with me when history was made? 

They set us free from tyranny! The Boys of the Old Brigade! 



They met with Dragutin Saltovic in his dressing room at the 
Seattle concert hall. "Do you like Rachmaninoff, Colonel?" asked the 
great pianist, his accent barely perceptible after all the years he had 
spent in the Northwest. He was slim and elegant, his flowing pony- 
tailed mane and his large sweeping moustache pure white. He sat in an 
armchair completely at ease, wearing casual slacks and a turtle-necked 
sweater, puffing on a briar pipe, swirling cognac in a round-bottomed 
snifter. "I am doing a special performance tonight with the Seattle 
Philharmonic and Choir, dedicated to Rachmaninoff s work. We will be 
starting with the piano concertos and working up to the Requiem." 



H. A. Covington 

"I'm afraid I won't be able to make it tonight, sir, but my wife 
and I have both heard you in concert before, and my daughter Eva has 
a large number of your CDs in her music collection. She is a great 
admirer of yours," Don told him. 

"I will be happy to procure you and your family tickets to any of 
my performances, once I return from Europe. So, tell me, how may I be 
of assistance to the Bureau of State Security?" asked Saltovic politely. 

"We're working on a somewhat unusual case. It involves 
something that occurred during the War of Independence. If you don't 
mind, sir, I'd like to get a little background on your personal 
involvement with the revolution first. We have our files, of course, but 
it's always more instructive to hear these things at first hand." 

"Certainly," said Saltovic with a shrug. One did not rush BOSS. 

"How did you end up with the NVA?" asked Redmond. 

"When I was a child, I heard the American bombers coming for 
us in Belgrade," Saltovic told them. "I was six years old. One night the 
sound of the jets was especially loud. There was a great flash of light 
and I knew nothing more for a long time. I am told that electronic 
sensing equipment heard me crying beneath the earth. It took the 
rescue parties almost two days to dig me out, during which they 
themselves were bombed and strafed several times by the Americans 
and some of them died, so their lives had to be added to my accounts 
payable as well. They haunt me in some ways worse than my own 
blood, those brave and simple working men of Serbia who never knew 
me or my family, who owed me nothing, and yet who kept on digging 
and seeking a crying child beneath the rubble even while Bill and 
Hillary Clinton's power of darkness came for them and butchered them 
one by one. The men finally found me, and I lived. None other of my 
family did, besides myself. My father and my sister were never found, 
at least nothing that could be identified, but afterwards, I swore on the 
grave of my mother and my brother that someday the Americans would 
hear me coming for them, and that they would know the fear and the 
horror I felt during those days. It was the oath of a child, but I meant it. 
Fortunately for me, one of the housemothers at the orphanage where I 
grew up was an elderly Orthodox peasant woman from the countryside 



The Hill of the Ravens 

named Dorotta, who remembered the old ways, the old truths from the 
time of our fathers' fathers, when men could speak such truth without 
fear. She would come to me at night when I had bad dreams about the 
American bombers, and she would sit by my bedside and we would 
talk, very quietly. She told me about the Jews, so that I came to 
understand that it was not only America that was my enemy, but also 
that evil alien race who are the enemies of all mankind, the enemies of 
all life. 

"I kept that promise of vengeance, Colonel. In my youth I 
became a Muslim of convenience for a time and pretended to be 
Bosnian, so that I could fight against the Americans alongside the 
mnjaheddin in Afghanistan, and later on against the Israelis in 
Palestine. Then I heard that the white people of the Northwest had 
revolted against ZOG. and so I became a Christian again and crossed 
into America down by El Paso, on what was then the Mexican border 
before it moved north. I was caught by the U. S. Border Patrol, but then 
I pretended to be a Turk. I didn't speak any Turkish, but neither did the 
Border Patrol, so they had no clue that in my jabber I was describing to 
them in Pashtun the various obscene and improbable acts their own 
mothers had performed with goats and horses. At that time the secular 
puppet government of Turkey were the only reliable Muslim allies with 
ZOG against the Saudis and the Afghans and the Palestinians and the 
Iraqis. So they had special orders to ignore Turks, and they let me go. I 
made my way Northwest, to Seattle, and made contact with the local 
Serbian community. In the orphanage we had no computers or 
television, only music, and I had come to love music as the only sign I 
could find that there was either a God or an Allah. I worked as a piano 
tuner for several months. One of my customers was a family of very 
rich Jews on Bainbridge Island. They had a magnificent Steinway and a 
beautifully restored seventeenth century harpsichord made by Stefano 
Faureggio of Pavia. The Jew boasted that the harpsichord had been 
'liberated' by his grandfather from a German schlass of some kind 
during the Second World War. Eventually I met a man whom I had 
reason to believe knew where I could find the NVA. I told him I wanted 
to meet one of their commanders. The man said to me, 'But why would 



H. A. Covington 

they want to meet you?' I told him, 'Because I have something for 
them.' 

"After some delay I received a call from the man who told me to 
be in a boathouse on Lake Union at midnight. I came there at the 
appointed time, and I met Tom Murdock. I had a bag with me and this 
caused Commandant Murdock and his men to point their weapons at 
me in suspicion. Murdock asked me what was in the bag. I told him it 
was my admittance fee to the Northwest Volunteer Army. He became 
angry. He said 'Yeah, we need money and that's a fact, but nobody buys 
their way into the Volunteers!' I disagreed. I think you will find this an 
adequate price,' I told him. They opened the bag and found the head of 
the Jew with the Steinway. After they had finished laughing Murdock 
told me, 'I'd take your price, mister, but I'm afraid I don't have change. 
All I got on me is two nigger heads and a Filipino dick.' I shrugged and 
told him "So keep the change!' Then those mighty men laughed even 
more loudly, and I was sworn in." 

"You got in cheap. O. C. Oglevy would have sent you back to kill 
the rest of the family and burn the house down," observed Redmond 
sourly. 

"Oh, I had already done that," said Saltovic airily, waving his 
hand. "But I only had the one small bag." 

"Er... right. So you fought with the Column until the disaster. 
Then where?" 

"Then with the Number One Seattle Brigade, as I suspect you 
know, Colonel, since you tell me you have examined my military 
records. Then I spent a time just after Longview with Charlie Randall 
where I carried out special assignments." 

"Including the capture of Hillary Clinton herself, I believe?" 
asked Redmond. "I recall Corey Nash mentioning you once." 

"Yes. That foul hag was attempting to influence her weak- 
minded daughter to abrogate the treaty and resume the war, and that 
could not be allowed. Randall saw a window of opportunity during an 
enemy political conference. I was able to infiltrate into the Denver 
Hilton by posing as a waiter and the rest I am sure you know. By the 
way, that man Nash is insane," commented Saltovic. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Sir, I am aware of the fact that Mr. Nash's treatment of Mrs. 
Clinton has been characterized as excessive even by some of our own 
historians," said Redmond cautiously. "I am not sure myself whether he 
was left alone with her by accident or by design. I have always avoided 
asking. In any case, it should have been better handled, and I have 
stated that opinion personally to President Morgan. But she was a 
wicked woman and she deserved punishment, and if I may speak from 
personal knowledge, Mr. Nash has a story rather similar to your own." 

"Yes, Colonel, he is a Rhodesian. I know what happened to his 
family. Nor do I, of all people, dispute that Hillary Clinton deserved 
death a thousand times over. She sent the bombers to Belgrade, after 
all. I do not criticize Mr. Nash or deny that I am very grateful to him. I 
am simply making an observation. I know the difference because I 
could see it in myself. There is a difference, sir, between evil and crazy. 
I am an evil man. Corey Nash is simply mad. I understood my own 
situation, and since the end of the War of Independence I have 
attempted to rectify it. I have tried to stop being evil and rejoin the 
human race through music. I hope I have at least somewhat succeeded. 
I kept my vow to avenge my family, Colonel. But after I had kept it, I 
knew that my parents would not have wanted me to live on in nothing 
but hatred and violence. My father was a cultured and gentle man who, 
I later learned, always did his best to try to make peace between the 
various nations of Yugoslavia. There comes a time when vengeance 
must end, sir, or else the enemy has destroyed yet another soul. I left 
the NVA when my duty was done, and I devoted the rest of my life to 
music, except when I was called up during Operation Strikeout, when I 
was attached to the military agitprop and psywar office. I know most 
Eastern European languages and I was able to help persuade the many 
Eastern European immigrants in British Columbia to support the 
Republic. Not that they needed much convincing in view of the 
persecution to which they were subjected by the Ottawa government 
and the B. C. provincial regime. Now, Colonel, may I inquire as to the 
exact purpose of your visit? If you have access to my files you probably 
know more than I do about my own career with the NVA, since I have 
forgotten quite a bit in the past thirty-odd years. How may I help you?" 



H. A. Covington 

"You are one of the eight survivors of the Olympic Flying 
Column," replied Redmond. 

"Yes," said Saltovic, turning his head momentarily. He put his 
hand to his mouth. "That was a terrible time. The Republic lost some of 
the finest men and women who ever fought for us all. I'm sorry, sir, but 
they were... they were good friends. One especially. I assume you have 
some reason for reminding me of them?" 

"Mr. Saltovic, we need to speak of the events surrounding the 
destruction of the Olympic Flying Column during the War of 
Independence." 

"Why?" demanded the pianist. 

"Trudy Greiner is coming back to the Republic on October 
22 nd ," Redmond told him. Saltovic seemed to freeze. "She says she is 
innocent. She is demanding a public trial." 

"What? Keep her away from me!" whispered Saltovic, his face 
suddenly going completely ashen. I don't know what you intend with 
this, Colonel, but do not ask me to go anywhere near her. I cannot. I 
swear to God that if you do I will find some way to kill her! I still 
remember some of those things. How to kill. Dear God, how could a 
woman so beautiful be so evil?" He looked up. His eyes had suddenly 
become almost insane. "But I want to be there when she is hanged!" he 
snapped. 

"If that is your wish, sir, and if a security court finds her guilty, 
then you would certainly have that right." said Redmond neutrally. "We 
need to be sure of our ground, though, and go over once again what we 
do know about what happened. You drove the mortar truck from 
Hoodsport down to Port Orchard?" 

"Yes. It had to be me. I was the only one with a full CDL license, 
a license to drive an eighteen-wheeled vehicle, in case we were stopped. 
If that happened I had all my documentation and we would just hope to 
God they didn't look inside the PVC pipes or notice that rather odd 
steel bar arrangement just behind the cab, the lift we would use to raise 
the mortar tubes into their firing position." 

"How did you manage to get that license?" asked Nel. "How did 
you pass the ID and background checks?" 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"It wasn't real. I had one forged when I was looking for work in 
Seattle. It was good enough to pass, and if it didn't the cop who pulled 
me over just figured I was another foreign immigrant talking gibberish 
and would always take $50 to ignore it. My driver's license wasn't real 
either, but in those days all you had to do was talk like a foreign fool 
and the cops figured you were just another illegal. Since local police 
were forbidden to enforce what was left of the United States 
immigration laws, in some cases it was actually better to be caught with 
a forged document than a real one. 'I am goot Amurrican! I come dis 
country for freedom, God bless Amurrica, iz greatest cuntry in verld!' 
You get the idea." 

"You and Frank Palmieri drove the mortars?" asked Redmond. 
"With Ed and Brittany McCanless driving your forward scout car?" 

"Yes," said Saltovic. "Young Vitale wanted to go with me, he 
wanted to lay the mortars and fire them off. Like all young men, he 
enjoyed large explosions. But Commandant Murdock vetoed that." 

"Why?" asked Redmond. 

"Because... " Saltovic chuckled, shaking his head. "Because, I 
think he felt I might not be comfortable with Volunteer Vitale. Or him 
with me." 

"Because Bill Vitale is the illegitimate son of William Jefferson 
Clinton? The man who sent the bombers that killed your family?" asked 
Redmond. 

"Bill Clinton didn't send the bombers, Hillary did," said Saltovic 
again. "That is why I told you that I hold no grudge of any kind against 
Mr. Nash, even though my personal opinion of his mental stability is 
not good. Even in those days, before all the research and exposition 
done by the Republic's historians, we knew that this was true, that 
Hillary was responsible for the American attack on Serbia. I knew it 
was true long before I came to America, although Clinton was certainly 
just as morally guilty of my parents' death as was his evil wife. He went 
along with it. Commandant Murdock was actually incorrect in trying to 
keep Vitale and I apart. Despite a history of vendetta among the 
Serbian people that rivals that of the Sicilians, I personally do not 
believe in transferring the sins of the fathers to the sons. If you want to 



H. A. Covington 

know the truth, I found the presence of Bill Clinton's bastard progeny 
in the ranks of the NVA to be an amusing and edifying twist of fate. As 
to young Vitale himself, I liked him. Somehow I understood that he was 
aware of what his father did, but he was always too courteous to try and 
speak to me about it. and I found that very mature and honorable of 
him. After all, what could he say? 'Gee, Drago, sorry my father was a 
berserk tyrant who slaughtered your family?'" 

"I understand. Now, the NVA men who ferried your two 
vehicles across Hood Canal. Did you know them?" 

"No. That often happened. People appeared out of the mist, 
sometimes quite literally in this land, and then disappeared after doing 
what had to be done." 

"Their identities probably aren't important, since it was the 
main column that was ambushed and not the mortar truck. Do you 
have any idea why the mortar vehicle was sent into the attack zone 
separately with such a small team of Volunteers or why Murdock kept 
the rest of the group together?" 

"No. Why? Is that important?" 

"The only reason I can think of why he might do that is if he 
were expecting the main column to be ambushed," said Redmond 
thoughtfully. "But if that were the case, why did he walk right into it? 
Murdock was never that careless. It just seems odd to me. We have 
already interviewed Frank Palmieri and the McCanlesses, and I think 
that we have a pretty fair idea of what happened during your heroic 
assault on the courthouse, which jibes with our official military history 
of that day." 

"We were not heroes," said Saltovic. "We were simply doing 
what had to be done. None of us could have lived with ourselves if we 
had run away from the destruction of our brothers and sisters without 
striking a blow to make sure their deaths were not in vain."* 

Redmond spoke again. "Mr. Saltovic, there's another angle 
we're looking at in our investigation. That's the possibility that what 
you might call a lover's triangle between Commandant Murdock, 
Melanie Young, and Trudy Greiner might have some bearing on what 
happened at Ravenhill. It goes to motive, you might say. I know it's 



The Hill of the Ravens 

been a lifetime ago, and believe me, sir, I'm not just fishing for idle 
gossip from the long dead past. But what can you tell us about the 
relationship between Trudy and Murdock and Melanie in that sense?" 

"Trudy Greiner was an extremely beautiful young woman," said 
Saltovic. "That I will grant her freely. Yes, it is my understanding that 
when I first joined the Column, she was Commandant Murdock's 
mistress. One has a feel for these things, you understand. And then 
there came a time when there was a perceptible change, just after 
Melanie Young arrived. We all knew, of course. You cannot keep secrets 
in such a close group of people who live in one another's pockets and 
share the daily danger of death." 

"Did you yourself feel any attraction to Trudy Greiner?" 

"Beyond the ordinary admiration of a normal man for such a 
woman, no," said Drago. 'There was another one of the female 
Volunteers whom I loved. A French Canadian girl. Her name was Gina. 
That story is not relevant to your inquiry, Colonel, except insofar as it 
tends to indicate that I am capable of judging the situation between 
Commandant Murdock and the other two objectively. Gina died with 
our comrades on that morning, but she lives on in my memory. In my 
heart, she is forever nineteen. Next question, please." 

"Did you ever speak of religion to Commandant Murdock?" 
asked Redmond. "Were you aware of the fact that he wore a Mjolinir on 
his person and appears to have been a follower of the Old Gods?" 

"I seem to recall that he did, yes. There were men and women of 
all different Aryan religious persuasions in the NVA, Colonel. Many of 
us were there, in fact, because the dictates of religious faith demanded 
it and it was felt to be a duty to God or the gods as well as to mortal 
men to fight against the tyranny of ZOG. I myself once fought against 
ZOG in the name of Allah, as I have told you. But to most of us it did 
not matter why our comrades were there, so long as they were there." 

"There must have been exceptions?" asked Redmond. "Dr. 
Joseph Cord, for example?" 

Drago shrugged. "Joseph could be annoying, Colonel, but he 
had a very good instinctive feel as to just how far he could go and he 
was always careful not to cross that line. And no one has ever 



H. A. Covington 

questioned his genuine devotion to the revolution. If I understand your 
hint, no, I cannot believe that Cord had anything to do with what 
happened to the Column." 

"What do you believe happened?" asked Nel. 

"My understanding is that Trudy Greiner is known to have 
received one million dollars from an unknown source the day after the 
ambush, and it is certain that she disappeared. Why should we doubt 
the official version of events?" responded Saltovic. 

"If that version is correct, why would Gertrude Greiner suddenly 
decide to come in from the cold after all these years?" asked Redmond. 

"Do you know what motivated me during the time I was on my 
quest to avenge my murdered family and my murdered country, 
Colonel?" asked Drago grimly. "Most would say it was hate, and yes, 
there was great hate in me. But most of all it was guilt, the unreasoning 
guilt of the survivor. My family were gone, all destroyed, and yet I 
remained behind. Why? Why should they be gone forever and why 
could I not be with them? Religious belief aside, sir, one has an 
inescapable feeling of being cursed of God, that one's survival is not a 
blessing but a punishment. Have you considered the possibility that 
this woman can simply no longer live with what she did and seeks to 
expiate her crime before the eyes of God and man?" 

"But she says she is innocent," prompted Nel. 

"Her mind may believe that," said Saltovic. "It is even possible, I 
suppose, that she is innocent in fact and that someone else betrayed the 
Column. But I can guarantee you, Sergeant, that her soul tells her she is 
guilty. She is guilty for being alive, while all those others whom she 
loved are dead." 

"And how can you tell that?" asked Redmond. 

"Because there are eight more like her," said Drago. "Me, and 
seven others." 

"We have one more survivor to interview," said Redmond as 
they floated down over I-5 back to Olympia. "The one I am most 
reluctant of all to approach with this." 

"General Willem Vitale?" asked Nel. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Yes. I've sent word through military channels that I need to see 
him, so he knows we're coming. He's still down on the border, and so 
we'll be away for a night, maybe two." 

"Sir," began Nel diffidently, "I understand this man is your 
lifelong friend. I'd offer to take over the interview myself, but I am only 
a sergeant and it would not be correct for me to interview a general in 
the SS, nor frankly could I muster the necessary officer presence in 
view of the difference in our rank. As late in the day as it is, would it not 
be better for you to bring another senior officer into the case?" 

Redmond chuckled. "In the first place, Sergeant Nel, under 
Section 30 of the Offenses Against the State Act, that BOSS brassard 
you're carrying makes you Jesus Christ and all twelve apostles rolled 
into one anywhere in this man's Republic. As an agent of the Bureau of 
State Security you have the legal authority to walk into Longview House 
right now, without asking anybody's permission, and you can ask John 
Corbett Morgan what he had for breakfast if it is germane to a security 
matter you are investigating. John Corbett damned well has to answer, 
and he knows it. He may well have your guts for breakfast the next day. 
but he has to answer you first. You can go anywhere, arrest anyone, 
beat the crap out of anyone or kill anyone if need be, and if you can 
convince your superiors that it was necessary to prevent forty million 
white people from going back to the horror we lived in all those years 
ago, then you're Jack the Lad. The Republic faces a clear and present 
danger from the United States and damned near everybody else in the 
world, and a society in our position must have blunt instruments at its 
command to break open the heads of those who would destroy us. That 
is the only way that an organization such as ours can possibly do our 
job. Remember the first rule you were taught on your first day in 
training when you came out of the Civil Guard to join the Bureau. This 
revolution of ours is forever. The white race will never, ever go back, 
and your job is to make damned sure we don't." 

"Technically, yes sir, I do have that right, but President 
Morgan's breakfast menu aside, we do live in a real world, you know. 
Realistically, as regards this case?" 



H. A. Covington 

"Look, Hennie, I get what you're saying, and I appreciate it, but 
no," said Redmond, shaking his head. "Duty isn't something you pass 
off to someone else when the going gets rough. That's why it's called 
duty. It is yours. I had that drummed into my head during my History 
and Moral Philosophy classes at Sandpoint. It's Old Man 101, not to 
mention the core of Aryan manhood. Duty is what being a white man is 
all about, duty to family and country, duty to God, duty to history and 
to the Folk, duty to the past and the future... Christ, the citizens of the 
Republic have duty crammed down our throat, because that is who we 
are and that is what we were made for. The Christian Identity people 
call it the Yoke of God. The Old Believers say that a man must dree his 
weird. Beyond that, this is something I have to do for myself. If I 
shirked this, neither Bill nor my own family would forgive me and I 
would never forgive myself. It would be like I was afraid to face reality, 
and that is against the First Principle of National Socialist Thought. We 
accept things as they are, not as we would like for them to be. That's us, 
Hennie. That is how we live now. We are the men who did what had to 
be done forty years ago, and we do what has to be done today." 

"Where exactly will we be meeting the general?" 

"He's down in the Sawtooth hill country, touring the crossings 
and the forward positions and the outposts, checking on readiness, 
getting a personal feel for what the Mexicans are up to down over the 
line, that kind of thing. I could wait until he's back, but we need to get 
this done. You up for a little copter ride?" 

"Of course." 

"Good. When we get back to the office, go home and meet me at 
the Bureau helipad in two hours. Change into your bush tackies and 
take along whatever weapons or rations or gear you take when you go 
walkabout. Wherever Big Bill Vitale is, I can guarantee you that 
business suits aren't required dress." 



The two BOSS men, now attired in their own camouflage 
fatigues, finally ran Major General William Vitale of the Special Service 



The Hill of the Ravens 

to earth at Outpost Twelve down on the border. Redmond and Nel 
landed at Twin Falls airport in the small hours of the morning, where 
they were met by a smaller military chopper and flown to a forward 
airfield in the rugged Sawtooth range about thirty miles to the 
southeast. Below them occasional lights twinkled in the cold blackness 
from the isolated border ranches and farms. From the forward airfield 
they arrived at the outpost after a long and bumpy ride in a Groundhog, 
a half-tracked all-terrain vehicle capable of climbing the hills like a 
mountain goat, crossing a lake, and roaring down a tarmac road at 
eighty miles an hour if necessary. Their driver was an SS sergeant from 
Vitale's personal staff who seemed to know the way and thought it 
might be a good idea to see if the Groundhog could fly in the dark. 
Somewhat to Redmond's surprise, they made it in one piece just as the 
sun rose over the mountains to the east. 

Outpost Twelve turned out to be a carefully camouflaged base 
camp of tents, prefab buildings, plasma anti-aircraft batteries and 
vehicles hidden in a small canyon on the Republic's southern Idaho 
border. It sat by a rushing stream deep in the rugged forest. The lean 
larches and aspens with their white trunks seemed to knife into the sky. 
their leaves bright orange and red. The smell of wood smoke, fresh 
coffee and frying bacon and eggs in the outdoors filled the air, mixed 
with the smell of small arms oil and the indefinable odor of cold metal 
that always seems to hang over gun barrels and military equipment. 
The green, white and blue Tricolor of the Republic curled and floated in 
the cool dawn breeze, and beside it billowed the red, white and blue flag 
of the Lone Star State. The soldiers at the outpost included a few of 
Vitale's SS commandos, but were mostly part of the NDFs First 
Battalion, 32 nd Regiment. The Thirty-Second was also known as the 
Texas Light Infantry, drawn from first or second-generation Texas 
immigrants. These TLI men were considered to be one of the regular 
army's elite units, upholding the long and proud tradition of arms of 
their native land. 

The Texans wore the standard NDF military camouflage 
fatigues, but on their heads they wore gray felt Stetsons with their 
regimental badge, an honor granted to their corps after Operation 



H. A. Covington 

Strikeout due to their successful capture of Kamloops and their 
subsequent defense of the city against over 35,000 Canadian 
government and U.N. troops. The day after the local white 
underground had revolted and seized the government buildings, 435 
Texans from the NDF had parachuted in. They held Kamloops for the 
next eight days against overwhelming odds, mostly manning the 
plasma ray weapons that had brought down the UN and NATO 
bombers, but also organizing the defense of the hastily-erected 
fortifications and barricades against the Zionist ground troops. The TLI 
took charge of a ragtag force of over eight thousand white Canadian 
citizens of Kamloops. ranging in age from 12 to 80, most of whom had 
never held a rifle in their lives, since Canada had imposed over a 
generation of gun control on her white citizens. But they had manned 
the earthworks with the NDF rather than be returned to the Zionist 
government in Ottawa. Without their bombers, the troops of ZOG were 
baffled and reduced to clumsy, half-hearted mass attacks. They had 
never faced anyone who fought back without air support, and they were 
beaten back time and again, but the sheer weight of numbers had 
rendered it a bloody business. Of the 435 TLI from the first eight days, 
only 197 had survived. Of the eight thousand Canadian militia, only 
about four thousand were alive when the besieged city was relieved by 
the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler and the Second and Third SS Panzer 
Divisions. When the war ended five weeks later, British Columbia and 
Alaska had become part of the Republic. To this day, any Texan who 
visited Kamloops found that his money was no good there. 

They were taken to meet General Vitale in his command tent. 
"Don!" said Vitale in genuine pleasure. He rose from his seat behind a 
folding metal table and shook Don's hand warmly. He was wearing a 
trim camouflage field uniform with SS runes his general's oak leaves, 
and his Leibstandarte riband with the words Adolf Hitler in Germanic 
Fraktiir lettering just above his left sleeve cuff. Big Bill Vitale always 
slightly unnerved Don and others who knew anything of history, 
because he bore more than a passing resemblance to his infamous 
father at the height of his power, but no one ever dared to mention the 
fact. "I heard you wanted to talk to me about something, but it must be 



The Hill of the Ravens 

more important than I thought for you to come all the way out here. 
Haven't found any more of my doppelgangers from ONR running 
around, have you?" 

"No, not thus far," Redmond replied. 

"I actually didn't think that character favored me at all." 
Redmond forbore to tell him that in an effort to fool the DNA scanners 
at GHQ, the Federals had located one of Bill Clinton's many illegitimate 
by-blows who was approximately the same age as Vitale, a broken- 
down drunken derelict from Little Rock. Then the Federals had 
surgically altered him and mentally programmed the man to act as a 
suicide bomber. Although he had never referred to Vitale's background 
out of courtesy, it seemed unnecessary for him to know that Don had 
killed his half brother. Suddenly Big Bill's face went slack. "Dio, Don, 
it's not Tori, is it? Is she all right?" 

"No, no, Tori's fine." Redmond hastened to assure him. 
"Everybody back home is fine. That's not why I'm here." 

"Whatever it is, couldn't it wait until our 10/22 barbecue at your 
place?" asked Vitale curiously. "Don't get me wrong, you know I'm 
always glad to see you. but things are a bit up in the air right now. Is 
this official? Look, Don. if there's a state security problem going on 
here in this command that I need to know about, spit it out. man! We 
can't afford any slip-ups today!" 

"No, it's not really an official visit, just want to have a little chat, 
sir, but I'm afraid this is something that has to be taken care of as 
quickly as possible, and definitely before the twenty-second. It's an old 
case that we're re-opening." 

"And you brought your BOSS partner for a casual little chat?" 
asked Vitale with arched eyebrows. "Must be some old case. Never 
mind. You'll tell me when you're ready, I'm sure, and in the meantime 
I'm forgetting my hospitality. Have a seat, gentlemen. Care for some 
coffee?" 

"Real coffee or ersatz? " asked Redmond with a smile. 

"Real honest to God coffee from the Medford hydroponics 
garden," said Vitale. "That's the one thing we suffer from in the 
Republic, the lack of a tropical climate to grow proper coffee and tea 



H. A. Covington 

and tobacco, but the hydroponics guys are really doing wonders making 
up for it. Our homegrown real stuff costs like hell, but it's available in 
every supermarket and I understand they're even going to be re- 
opening Starbucks soon. Won't that be something, after forty years? 
And I might add this isn't special officers' ration either. Any unit I 
command, I eat and drink exactly what my men eat and drink. No more 
and no less." 

"Actually, I developed a taste for the acorn brew when I was first 
married." laughed Redmond. "Sarah has some variations on it, honey 
and special magical herbs. We still drink hers at home, but I have to 
admit a proper Java is great on a cold morning." Vitale took out a 
thermos and poured them each a mug of strong, steaming black brew 
into metal canteen cups and handed it to them. "Then came the ersatz 
instant. I think I was about twenty-five before I ever had my first cup of 
real coffee, and thirty before it had real sugar in it." 

"All the sugar beet crop had to be used to make fuel alcohol 
before that." Vitale reminded him, sipping from his canteen cup. 

"Yeah, I remember. You're a hard man to track down in the 
field, sir. You've implied that this is something more than a routine 
border post inspection?" 

"Officially, yes, that's all it is," said Vitale. "Unofficially, I'm here 
because we're expecting a consignment in sometime today." 

"I always got a kick out of sanctions-busting," said Redmond 
with a grin. "What's the consignment? Medicine? Electronics parts? 
Vintage champagne?" 

"No. We are awaiting a consignment of the most precious 
contraband of all," said Vitale soberly. "Fifty-seven refugees from one 
of the last surviving Mormon fundamentalist communities in Utah. 
Twenty-one of them are children under twelve, including two newborn 
infants. They've been living rough all summer since the Mexican 
authorities evicted them from their homes in Provo." 

"Limpezia de sangre? " asked Don with loathing. 

"You got it. No one with what the Mex refer to as 'pure blood' 
can own property or be a citizen of the wonderful Nuevo Mondo 
Hispanica now. The pale and wicked gringo must be driven at last from 



The Hill of the Ravens 

the lands of La Raza, so forth and so on. Military intelligence heard 
rumors of the colony's existence and we sent Wild Man Mooney down 
there undercover to try and make contact with them." 

"Now there's a name to conjure with!" exclaimed Redmond. 
"Rescuing whites from Aztlan is Captain Mooney's specialty. I believe?" 

"Yes. For the umpteenth time, Paul Mooney stained his skin 
brown and dyed his hair black. His Spanish is perfect. You stand next 
to him, you'd swear to God he was a cholo. He even sweats Mexican." 

"I beg your pardon?" asked Redmond. 

"The War Prevention Bureau biotechies have these pills now 
that these deep cover guys can take, and it actually chemically alters the 
composition of perspiration so that the body odor reflects the DNA 
composition of a mestizo, or even a negroid." 

"I know WPB has agents who can pass for monkoids for short 
periods of time, but that's a new one on me," said Redmond, shaking 
his head in wonder. 

"It's important. Mooney can now fool a trained police dog as 
well as other Mex. He has an authentic East L. A. accent. He ought to. 
He grew up down there and his hatred for the spies is total, but with a 
little alteration he can pass for one of them and they haven't caught 
him yet. He's so authentic I understand the Mormons damned near 
killed him when he got into their camp in the Wasatch. Not hard to 
understand. The beaners have been hunting them like animals for 
months. Mooney was able to persuade them to Come Home easy 
enough; they were about ready to try and run the border on their own 
anyway, although there's no way a group that size could have made it 
past the minefields. Mooney took command and they've made it on foot 
up to a point about twelve miles from here on the Mexican side, where 
we were able to infiltrate and get them a dirt bus and a couple of SS 
men for the last run Home. They were supposed to take the gap this 
morning, in the hours of darkness, but they had a delay. The two 
infants are now three, a little white boy who was born at four o'clock 
this morning. Mooney has a communicator and he brought us up to 
date. He's decided to try and take the gap in the daylight, as dicey as 
that is. The other side is swarming with Mexican patrols and they now 



H. A. Covington 

have a unit of Chinese helicopter gunships on the border. The Mex 
don't savvy heat-seeking infrared sensors but the Chinese do, and Wild 
Man didn't feel comfortable waiting another day at the jump-off for 
nightfall. There's no way that where he was could have been defended 
long enough for us to go pull them out. He's coming down from the 
mountains with all of them in the bus, and he's going to break cover 
and make a flat run for the Keziah Crossing checkpoint." "Right under 
their noses?" asked Redmond. "Isn't that risky as hell?" 

"Yeah, I'll grant you, the danger's not small. But better than 
risking another day hunkered down like sitting ducks. Here," Vitale 
gestured to a map on the desk before him. Both the BOSS men leaned 
over the table to look at it. "You can see. It's only about a mile of open 
country, we've given him our latest poop on where we think the 
Mexican minefields are, and that bus is souped-up and mineproofed, 
water in the tires, the floor lined with heavy nylon conveyor belting. 
With any luck at all, they should be able to make it before those dozey 
Borderos realize what's happening. There's only two things that worry 
me. One is those damned Chinese choppers. We can spot them a little 
on radar and by satellite, bobbing up and down over the woods and the 
prairies. They're keeping their noses low and looking hard at what's on 
the ground, which is their mission after all. But my guess is that once 
Mooney breaks cover he'll be halfway to the line before they even see 
him. The second thing is that the Mexican commander on their side 
this month is United Nations General Alfonso Castaneda. He's a 
monster, but he's smart and he's tough and it's never a good idea to 
underestimate him. Him and me have a history." 

"I know Castaneda," said Don, his voice suddenly growing cold 
and hard. "He has his own ideas about how to cure limpezia de sangre. 
His treatment of white women is... well, you know what he does." 

"Oh, yeah, I know what he does. Well, with any luck he won't 
catch any of these Mormon girls today and un-purify their blood. As 
you can see, we have a reinforced company of TLI, air mobile with 
Valkyrie gunships to give him cover. The Valkyries are packed and 
armed and warming up just down the creek here on a little LZ the 
engineers dug out for us and camouflaged. Pull down a few nets and 



The Hill of the Ravens 

they can be in the air at the drop of a hat. We're hidden up here in the 
hills so the Mex don't spot us from one of their border observation 
posts and figure maybe something is up, and the heat shield should 
blur and block any satellite surveillance from the U. S. or Chinese 
orbitals they may have access to. We can be over there in a matter of 
minutes if we can get adequate warning and a good fix on Mooney's 
position. Besides, we have a battery of self-propelled 88s at Keziah. 
Once he leaves the starting gate. Mooney will be in range almost all the 
way and those 88s can discourage any pursuit. Now we're just waiting 
for news. It should go OK. Mooney is an expert at this sort of thing." 

"A legend is more like," said Redmond. 

I have always wanted to meet Captain Mooney." said Nel slowly, 
turning his coffee cup in his hand. "He got my sister and my niece out 
of South Africa. Mooney entered the country. Azania as it is called now 
by the kaffirs, by posing as a Mexican delegate to the 24 th World Anti- 
Racist Congress. He made contact and brought as many as he could 
Home with him. Mooney flew an ancient Russian transport plane 
directly from a secret airfield near Germiston with over 200 Afrikaners 
crammed into the hold like sardines, almost suffocated by the smell of 
the extra fuel. He evaded the Chinese fighters and he got out over the 
sea. He was the only pilot available. The man who was to be co-pilot 
had been captured by the Chinese and tortured to death. Fortunately 
the man who had to hand-pump the drums of jet fuel into the aircraft's 
tanks to refuel it did survive. The flight took over twenty-six hours, 
almost all of it over the Pacific. No airfield along the way would let the 
aircraft land to rest or refuel. Anna and Louwietje Nel sliced open 
Mooney's trousers with a knife, and they took turns massaging his legs 
on the foot controls and pouring coffee down his throat, slapping his 
face and shouting in his ear so he would not fall asleep. He brought the 
plane down at the Luftwaffe airfield in Astoria. It was a perfect three- 
point landing, using only two of the four engines and those two running 
on fumes. He asked Anna if his work was done. She told him it was 
done. Then Mooney passed out and did not wake up for thirty hours 
afterwards. I always wanted to thank him for that. Just after he left, the 



H. A. Covington 

24 th Ant- Racist Congress incited more massacres of whites throughout 
South Africa. What was left of my family did not survive." 

"Jesus," whispered Don in dismal wonder. "All those years 
before the revolution the Old Man begged our people to Come Home. 
Begged and pleaded, cajoled and cursed, berated and mocked and 
threatened, anything to get them to come to the Homeland. Most of 
them sat on their lazy asses in the United States for how many years? 
Five, ten, fifteen? When at any time they could have gotten up, packed 
their gear and come to our people's Home, legally! Now our people 
from all the world over risk their lives every day to come here. In some 
countries a white person can be sentenced to death for any attempt to 
emigrate to the Northwest Republic, sent to prison for so much as 
speaking about it. In the United States it's a felony hatecrime. You 
know, sometimes I wonder if there are any of those left back there who 
heard the Old Man's call back in the old days, when they were young? 
Who didn't come when all they had to do was pack their suitcases and 
hire a moving van? And now, if there are any of those old people left, do 
they turn on their TVs and see white people running the border, the 
mines and the sensors and the fences and the razor wire, the helicopter 
gunships and the machine gun nests to get here? I wonder what goes 
through their minds? I wonder if they understand what a precious gift 
they threw away in their confusion and their laziness, back in the early 
part of this century when all they had to do was to cut out all their 
stupid crap and listen to that one voice of desperate illumination calling 
to them from the Northwest?" 

"I can tell you. They would have given anything if only they had 
listened," replied Nel. "I come from the remnants of an entire nation 
who wish with all our souls that we had listened in time to the call to 
act instead of to talk. We talked instead. We swilled beer and then 
talked some more and then swilled more beer until we fell down onto 
the ground like drunken swine while our land was stolen from us by the 
beasts of the field. We listened to people like that buffoon Terre 
Blanche. Or we listened to no one and ordered another Lion lager in the 
hotel bar." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"And in this country we listened to wretches like William Pierce 
and that old bald-headed drunk down in San Diego, what the hell was 
his name? And dear God, how we paid for it! How we paid!" said Don 
with a sigh and a sad shake of his head. "Why? Why in God's name did 
we not listen to that one voice of sanity that called for us to quit fucking 
around and Come Home!" 

Vitale leaned forward on the desk. "Look, Don, we may not have 
much time, and I know beating around the bush when I hear it. What's 
up? Why are you two here?" 

"Bill... look... oh, Christ, I don't know how to say this... back 
when you were a Volunteer during the rebellion, you were with Tom 
Murdock's Olympic Flying Column. You're one of the eight people who 
survived Ravenhill." 

"Yes, I am," replied Vitale curiously. "You know that, Don. 
You've known it all your life. And now you come all this way to ask me 
about it? What the hell is going on?" 

"That is the case that has been re-opened." 

"What do you mean it's been re-opened?" asked Vitale in 
genuine puzzlement, still not comprehending what Don was saying. 

"I need to interview you about what happened at the meeting 
that occurred at the Hoodsport safe house in the early morning hours 
of August the first, that year. And things that happened before it." 

"You need to talk to me about what? " Vitale's face was blank. 
"Sorry, Don, maybe I'm a bit groggy this morning, but that was more 
than thirty years ago. I was a teenager still, fresh off the plane from 
Sicily. What on earth are you talking about?" 

"Trudy Greiner has contacted the office of the State President. 
She says she will enter the Republic on October 22 nd , at Mountain Gate 
in California," explained Don. "She says that she's innocent. She is 
demanding a public trial to prove her innocence, or guilt as may be. I 
am looking into that whole episode and frankly, I'm finding some 
things that don't add up. I need you to tell me everything that you 
remember about that time in your life." 

"Ah, comes the dawn!" said Vitale softly. "This really is an 
official visit. The Olympic Flying Column was betrayed by an informer, 



H. A. Covington 

Don. We always knew that. If it wasn't Trudy, then the stukach must be 
someone else. Most likely one of the eight of us who survived." 
"God damn it, Bill, I didn't mean... !" 

"Then you should have meant," said Vitale quietly and 
forcefully. "Look, Don, you and I have both had much to do with duty 
in our lives. I've always tried to do mine, and now you have to do yours. 
There is no need to be in any way diffident or ashamed. Ask your 
questions. I have nothing to hide and I'm not worried." Vitale's face 
clouded. "Don. all my life I have believed that Trudy Greiner was 
responsible for what happened that day to some of the finest and 
bravest men and women in the history of our people. Commandant 
Tom Murdock and Melanie Young were like my own brothers and 
sisters back in Sicily, hell, all of them were. I have hated Trudy Greiner 
in my heart and desired her death all these years. I still can't believe 
she's claiming that she wasn't guilty, but if she's not, and if I have been 
wrong all these years, then I want to know as much as you do. If I owe 
her that kind of apology, then I pray to God that both she and I live 
long enough for me to make it in person. Now ask me what you want to 
know." 

"The first thing I want to know is the first question I am asking 
everyone. How came it that you were not with the Column when the 
ambush at Ravenhill Ranch went down?" 

"I was in the main column's scout car, or rather scout truck, 
with Lars Frierson. Why did Murdock pick me? Lars and I were kind of 
buddies, and I think that's just the way it played out. I wanted to go 
with the mortar truck, but the only guy we had who had a full CDL 
license was Volunteer Saltovic, and... " 

"Yes, we know." 

"There wasn't any reason Drago and I couldn't have been alone 
together on a mission, at least not on my part, and I'm pretty sure not 
on Drago's part either. We always got along fine when we were with the 
Column and I've met him a couple of times since then. There's never 
been any bad blood between us, although God knows he had reason 
enough," Vitale felt compelled to add with a sigh. "I've always admired 
and respected him for that. But I guess Murdock just figured it was 



The Hill of the Ravens 

better to be safe than sorry, and so he always kind of made sure it never 
happened. Nothing at all was said, ever, but Drago and I were never 
assigned to anything that required close personal contact." 

"Yes, we've already spoken to former Volunteer Saltovic, and 
with Colonel Frierson. What puzzles me, Bill, is a military question 
you're probably the most qualified of them all to answer. Why Tom 
Murdock, who was ordinarily such a cautious commander, seems on 
this one occasion to have put all his eggs in one basket and moved the 
entire column, mostly in daylight, in one comparatively vulnerable 
convoy of only four vehicles total? Can you shed any light on that?" 

"Well," said Vitale slowly. "The only thing I can offer there is 
just a fragment of something I overheard between Murdock and Mel 
Young just before we moved out from the lumberyard where the 
vehicles were. I forgot about it for years, and when I did remember it 
was just ancient history." 

"That's more than we've gotten so far," said Redmond. 

"Something about secondary targets after the courthouse. We 
were all given briefings on their locations, vulnerable points for RPGs, 
security, etc. I got the impression that at the last minute the operation 
had become a bit more extensive than originally planned. We were 
really going to do a number on Port Orchard, the Special Criminal 
Court, the phone company, the cop shop, the whole nine yards. Take a 
lot more than the fifty-odd Volunteers we had. So we were hooking up 
with some reinforcements." 

"What reinforcements?" asked Nel. 

"Murdock asked us to make sure our CB radio in the truck 
worked. It did. He went back to Melanie and I heard him say something 
like 'We should run into the P. T. boys just past the Ravenhill access 
road, but if I don't see the signal we pull off and I'll send the scout up 
the road to go look.' The impression I got was that we were going into a 
combined operation with the Port Townsend Flying Column, and that 
Corby Morgan and his men were supposed to be meeting us at some 
rendezvous point somewhere down Ambush Alley, where we would 
presumably get our final assignments and dispositions." 



H. A. Covington 

Don Redmond's blood suddenly ran as cold as ice water. "Bill, 
Corby Morgan and the Port Townsend Flying Column were nowhere 
near your operational area that morning." 

"Yeah, I know," said Vitale. "I found that out later, so I always 
figured I must have misunderstood what I thought I heard. Anyway, 
just past the Ravenhill access road Fattie sprang the trap. We heard the 
gunfire. We couldn't actually see what was going on over the hill. We 
couldn't actually see our brothers and sisters dying. 

We knew damned well with all that heavy fire it had to be bad, 
but we couldn't do anything, and we somehow convinced ourselves 
they'd bop their way out of it. Hell, this was Tom Murdock and Melanie 
Young. They were our best. They could fight their way out of anything. 
So we obeyed General Order Number Eight and we left. Lars Frierson 
made me E & E with him." 

"You told me about that once, Bill, many years ago. Anything to 
add?" 

"No," said Vitale. "I've been a soldier all my life. That is the only 
time I've ever run away. I know it was complying with General Order 
Number Eight and I know it was necessary, but I don't think I've ever 
really forgiven myself, deep down inside." 

"There's something else... " began Redmond hesitantly. "Bill, I 
have known you for many years now, and I have never uttered one 
word to you on this one particular subject. I am deeply sorry that I have 
to do so now, but I have to ask. We are dealing with a matter of treason 
against the state and the race. It's my job." 

"Ask your question," ordered Vitale. 

"Your father was the President of the United States... " He could 
not go on. 

Vitale looked at him with a face of stone. "Yes, Don, you are 
quite correct. Never once in all these years have you or John Morgan or 
Sarah referred to my biological parentage in my presence, and I am 
more grateful than you can know for that. The only time I have ever 
discussed it with any of you was twice, many years ago, with Tori. Once 
in Sicily, when I was twelve years old, when she and Tony Stoppaglia 
and a man named Visconti, whom you wouldn't know, came to our 



The Hill of the Ravens 

home in Castellamare. And once again with Tori privately, after I came 
here, when she filled in some details. That was enough. I learned all I 
ever want to know about my birth. I've never even read the Old Man's 
novel about it. You want to know if that fact somehow has left me with 
some kind of emotional or spiritual bond with the United States?" 

"Has it?" asked Redmond bluntly. 

Vitale shook his head. "Don, by an accident of history my 
biological father was William Jefferson Clinton. But my true father, the 
man who made me what I am today, was the cabinetmaker and leather 
worker Anselmo Vitale, a citizen of Castellamare del Golfo in the 
prefecture of Trapani. in Sicily. My true mother was Giulia Vitale. My 
godfather was Antonio Stoppaglia. I did not grow up as an American, I 
grew up a Sicilian. That is who I am. I have spoken English for most of 
my adult life, but I still think and dream in Italian. By the grace of God 
I came to know my duty and my destiny in this life. I came to this 
Northwest land as a young man, to fulfill that destiny and to repay my 
debt to your family, to Matt and Heather Redmond and to Tori, who 
saved my life back in North Carolina at the risk of their own when I was 
a baby in arms. It is a life that I have never once regretted for a single 
moment. In the course of fulfilling that obligation, I became a National 
Socialist by conscience and a citizen of the Northwest American 
Republic. That is my family history. It is intertwined with your own. 
and if there was ever any doubt there, then you would know of it 
without having to ask. As to the other part? My biological father was a 
coward and a dog. a degenerate drug addict who raped my mother and 
then murdered her for the crime of giving life to me." In William 
Vitale's voice was a lifetime of hatred and anger and bitterness, of 
inconsolable loss beyond any help or understanding. Don's heart 
verged on the breaking point for this terrible curse born so long by so 
brave and noble a man, for he understood that never before in half a 
century had Vitale ever spoken such words. 

"He was also President of the United States," Don reminded 
him. 

"Yes," said William Vitale quietly. "I was told the truth at a 
young age, by Tori and Tony and by John Visconti, who were there 



H. A. Covington 

when it happened. I was given a burden to carry all my days, and I 
accepted it as the will of God. I have lived all my life in order to try and 
give some kind of decent meaning to that unspeakable horror from the 
past. My father was evil, Don. My mother was not. and I have always 
tried to be the kind of man she would have been proud of. In my home I 
keep a collection of every movie Alice Silverman ever made, every 
advertisement she ever did for detergents or stupid computer toys, 
every rock video she made as a teen-aged girl, every interview or talk 
show she ever did in the 1990s. In the blackest moments of my soul. I 
watch them over and over. Those images on my comscreen are all that I 
will ever have of her. I will never, ever forgive Bill Clinton for that. Nor 
will I forgive the government and the society that was capable of 
electing Bill Clinton not once, but twice. There is only one political or 
military implication to that which need concern the Bureau of State 
Security, Colonel, and that is that I want to place a priority on the NAR 
reconquering southern California for the white man. Before I die, I 
want to place a wreath of flowers on my mother's grave, if it is still 
there and the Mexicans haven't destroyed or desecrated it. That is the 
one and the only area where I constitute any possible concern to 
BOSS." 

"Fair enough." muttered Don in utter misery. "Bill, there's 
something else. I'm starting to think this angle may be a long shot and 
most likely isn't relevant in any way, but what can you tell me about the 
personal situation between Murdock, Trudy Greiner, and Melanie 
Young? I understand that there was a bit of a love triangle going on 
there. And again, please forgive me, but I have to ask. One of the 
survivors we've interviewed hinted that you more or less came on to 
Trudy Greiner after Tom Murdock dumped her." 

"Like a rocket, the minute I knew she was unattached," laughed 
Vitale sadly. "Just swaggered up to her in my best Italian style and told 
her, 'Hey, bellisima, when the time comes, I want a shot." She just 
laughed and said, 'Not yet, Valentino, but if and when the time comes 
I'll keep your resume on file.' Or something like that. Very light, but we 
both knew I was serious. Who knows what would have happened if 
she'd given my resume a closer look before she... before she did it." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"You think she did it?" asked Redmond. 

"Somebody gave her a million dollars, and it damned sure 
wasn't the Party paymaster," said Vitale. "We didn't have that kind of 
shekels. It was almost ten years before I got all my back pay from the 
NVA as a simple Volunteer." 

"We do seem to keep stumbling over that million dollars," said 
Hennie Nel, glancing at Colonel Redmond. 

Suddenly a young SS lieutenant stuck his head through the tent 
flap. "Sir, we've got a bit of a situation developing," he said. 

"Mooney?" demanded Vitale, rising to his feet. 

"Yes, sir. They made it to the jump-off point and he got them all 
on the bus. and he was taking it nice and slow down the cat roads, but it 
seems we weren't as on top of the landmine situation as we thought we 
were. The bus hit one. left rear tire. The mineproofing held and there 
were no injuries on board, but the rear axle is wrecked, the vehicle is 
damaged and the Mexicans have spotted them. Radar says they've got 
the whole nine yards closing in on the bus, copters and ground pursuit 
vehicles. Captain Mooney has been advised, and he's flooring it, but he 
can't make any speed on what's left of his rear tires and with a busted 
axle to boot. He's not even into the DMZ yet. They're going to nail him, 
sir. Him and all those refugees." 

"Like hell they are!" Vitale ripped the radio from his belt. "Fire 
up the Ladies!" he snapped into the communicator. "All three of them, 
and both of the transports! Scramble the fire teams. I'll be there in two 
minutes and we'd damned well better be in the air ten seconds after 
that or I'll have somebody's guts in linguini sauce tonight! Captain 
Maxwell, do you copy? You get on those boom boys at Keziah and tell 
them I want a solid sheet of .88 shells on any damned thing out there 
that moves besides Mooney! Capiche?" 

"You're going to invade Aztlan, sir?" asked the lieutenant with a 
bemused chuckle. "That'll be what, only the third time this year?" 

"Yeah, I know, I'm getting out of practice," growled Vitale, 
buckling on his web gear and strapping on his coal-scuttle helmet. 
"Don, you and your sarge feel like participating in a little international 
incident?" 



H. A. Covington 

"Nothing like an international incident before breakfast to work 
up an appetite," agreed Don, standing up. Vitale tossed both of them a 
pair of Schmeisser machine pistols and a canvas bag of magazines 
apiece. 

"These are Wilkerson Kine-modified!" exclaimed Nel, noticing 
the odd squarish bulge at the back of the receiver group. 

"Yeah. You never fired the GW Schmeisser?" asked Don. 

"Not the Schmeisser, but I have the range course on the Mark 
7," said Nel. By now they were sprinting down the pathway towards the 
helicopter pads, following Vitale and the lieutenant. They could hear 
the whine of the Valkyrie gunship engines starting up. 

"They handle like cartridge weapons. Just load the magazines 
like you normally would." panted Don. "Instead of the normal fifty 
rounds in the clip, you've got two hundred plain copper-jacketed slugs, 
with butterfly twists on the tip of each slug to make sure anything 
Mexican you hit turns into guacamole. Jack in a round, it will chamber 
against the kinetic energy plate, pull the trigger and you've got a burst 
with very little recoil. Easy to aim and control, no hot brass living about 
to roll down inside your collar and sting hell out of you. You can make 
like a Steve McQueen German from an old movie, spraying endless 
bullets from a bottomless magazine and yelling "Macht sclmell!' Unless 
you'd rather glom a standard issue Mark Seven rifle?" 

"I learn fast, sir." said Nel. slapping in a magazine. "Hey, 
General, if I bag a spic with this, can I keep the weapon?" 

Vitale had no time to answer as they leaped into the cabin of a 
hovering Valkyrie gunship. The aircraft were floating like lazy 
dragonflies four feet off the ground, their light but bulletproof plastic 
fuselages painted in camouflage and sporting circular green-white-and- 
blue rondels on the tail assemblies. Nel and Redmond quickly strapped 
themselves into the rear rumble seats behind the door gunners, which 
was lucky for them since the minute they were on board the Valkyrie's 
pilot tore away from the landing zone. Vitale swung into his seat like a 
monkey, strapped himself in with one hand, and was immediately on 
the com, demanding a sitrep and issuing orders. Don looked up over 
the pilot's head and saw the Valkyrie's traditional runic inscription 



The Hill of the Ravens 

burned into the metal above the visor. Nel saw it as well and asked. 
"What is that, Colonel?" 

"The NDF Air Cav*s official motto," explained Redmond. "It's 
an old Viking expression in some ancient Norse dialect that European 
archaeologists found in the ship-burial mound of a king, in Denmark I 
believe. Those are runic letters. It means: Harry to meet death, before 
your place is taken. " 

"Is this where they start playing the Wagner through the 
loudspeakers?" shouted Nel over the roaring slipstream. 

Vitale overheard him. "The TLI doesn't use Wagner." he called 
back to them. "They have a couple of old country songs from a hundred 
years ago they like." As if in response there was a sudden burst of sound 
from speakers embedded in the copters" landing skids. Don couldn't 
catch most of it. but it was some jaunty tune about there being beer in 
Texarkana. thirsty in Atlanta, and watching a bandit run. It seemed an 
odd song to ride into battle with, but then Don had always believed 
privately that Texans were a bit odd. There were three gunships and 
two larger armed transports to ferry the refugees back, both of which 
carried a team of medics. The five choppers zoomed in and out among 
the hills and canyons, over the trees of red and gold foliage, and all of a 
sudden they broke out over a spreading, flat plain matted with 
sagebrush and scrubby vegetation, the old country song blaring in the 
air around them with a twang of banjos. "What is a smokey?" asked 
Nel. 

"Uh, not sure, it used to be some kind of bear, I think," replied 
Redmond. Don never ceased to be amazed at how quickly the terrain 
could change here in the border country, both here and along the 
Montana salients where he had done his own military service with the 
SS. One minute they were flying through mountain forests of golden 
autumn foliage and now they were over flat prairie. Don twisted around 
in his seat and tried to catch a glimpse of where they were going. Ahead 
he could see fountains of earth erupting from the red ochre desert floor, 
and he understood that the choppers were swinging wide and coming 
in from the south at a high angle, in an attempt to avoid the artillery 
barrage. He couldn't tell whether the shells came from the enemy or 



H. A. Covington 

from the NDF's .88-millimeter batteries. He could not see any sign of 
the bus full of Mormon refugees, or indeed any motion on the ground 
of man or vehicle at all. Several bullets clacked and whined off the outer 
skin of the choppers. "We're being shot at!" he told Nel. The distance 
was short now, and all of a sudden the NDF choppers were over the 
bus. Redmond saw that an SS man in camouflage fatigues was lying 
prone on the top of the battered bus, a bipod-mounted splat gun 
against one shoulder. The splat gun was outwardly modeled on the 
Browning Automatic Rifle of the previous century, although it weighed 
about five pounds lighter. Instead of ordinary ammunition it 
chambered 18-inch long Wilkerson KE rounds of cadmium steel rod, 
sliced lengthwise from the top into eight slender, needle-like sections. 
When the kinetic energy plate hurled this projectile from the barrel at 
over seven thousand feet per second muzzle velocity, the sections 
opened and were thrown into a spin, resulting in a spread of eight 
whirling buzz saws that would be three to four feet in diameter by the 
time a target was reached. A tank or armored vehicle would be sheared 
through, and by the time the shards tore through the armor plating the 
heat of air and matter resistance would have turned them molten. As 
for a man, the kinetic force would literally dismember him, hence the 
weapon's name. 

"Ugly Birds downrange, five each, two miles and closing!*' 
someone squawked over the corns. The two transport choppers began 
settling down on either end of the bus. The door of the bus opened, and 
a brown-skinned, shirtless, Hispanic-looking man with a heavy black 
moustache and wearing patched jeans leaped out. 

"That's Mooney! Hold your fire!" shouted Vitale into his com. 
Medics leaped from both transports and ran to the bus in the swirling 
dust and sand. Wild Man Mooney began pulling men and women off 
the bus and sorting them toward the copters, one left, one right, one 
left, one right. Two of the medics grabbed women carrying babies in 
arms and hustled them towards the open loading doors of the 
choppers. A rocket plowed into the ground about fifty feet away from 
the bus and shook the earth, sending a geyser of soil and sagebrush into 
the air. "Ladies, hit those Uglies! Keep them away from that bus!" 



The Hill of the Ravens 

snapped Vitale into his mike. The Valkyrie surged forward and the bus 
below them was gone from view. Don looked forward just as the copter 
pilot leaned hard starboard and soared, then suddenly dived, bringing 
one of the Chinese helicopters into view in the open door. The door 
gunner cut loose with his twin machine guns, the 1000-round drums 
feeding slim and deadly .180 bullets against the energy plates and 
spitting them like a water hose. The pilot suddenly barrel-rolled out of 
a spray of Chinese fire that pattered against the fuselage like deadly 
raindrops. One of the machine gun bullets came through the door and 
slammed into the bulkhead a couple of inches to the left of Don's head, 
making his left ear ring. From that point on Don lost all track of what 
was going on. There were long minutes of twisting, soaring, diving and 
rolling accompanied by the clatter of machine gun fire, the thud of 
explosions, and incoherent voices coming out of the com, and then 
suddenly the Valkyrie dropped like a stone, hovered briefly a few feet 
above the desert floor, and set down. "Let's go!" yelled Vitale, jumping 
to the ground as the starboard door gunner covered him with a long 
sweep of fire. Redmond and Nel ripped off their harnesses and 
stumbled out after him. 

"Go where?" Don shouted. Then he saw that one of the 
Valkyries was down, black smoke pouring from its methane engine, its 
fuselage battered almost shapeless by hundreds of bullets and a hole 
from an RPG or some kind of shell in the pilot's windscreen. Through 
the open side door he could see the starboard door gunner firing at 
something in the distance. The port gunner hung in his harness, 
bleeding, and one of the pilots was crawling toward them, right leg 
bloody and smashed. Vitale and Nel ran for the wounded man on the 
ground. Redmond slung his submachine gun and leaped up onto the 
stricken copter. One glance was enough to show him the first pilot was 
dead; his helmeted head was hanging off his shoulders over the back of 
the seat by a few white sinews. Don pulled open the portside gunner's 
harness. As the man slumped forward Redmond shouldered him, 
hoisted him into a fireman's carry and began lumbering back towards 
his own Valkyrie. The starboard door gunner there unhooked, jumped 
out, and helped Don load the wounded man onto the deck and hook a 



H. A. Covington 

safety line onto his belt. "I'll take care of Harley, sir!" the soldier 
shouted. "Help the General!" Redmond whirled and saw Hennie Nel 
staggering back towards the gunship. half-lifting the pilot with the 
wounded leg whose arm was around the Afrikaner's neck, half dragging 
him. Bill Vitale was in the portside door of the downed Valkyrie, 
standing tiptoe on the now empty gunner's seat, and firing at 
something over the roof, his head hunkered down beneath the still 
turning rotor blade. Redmond unslung his Schmeisser and chambered 
a round. Other than a few-brief glimpses of the black Chinese 
helicopters, he hadn't seen an enemy yet. 

Then he did. Four, then five, then six men in khaki uniforms 
and OD green helmets came over a small slope at a dead run, then 
stopped to spray automatic fire at the Northwesters. Redmond hit the 
dirt, slipped the cuff over the firing chamber of his Schmeisser and 
quickly rotated the long magazine ninety degrees up and to the left so 
he could better fire from the prone position, snapped it back into place 
and cut loose. He saw one of the Mexicans drop, and then others as 
they were hit by fire from Vitale and the starboard gunner on the 
downed bird. "Don! Let's go!" came a shout. Vitale and the door gunner 
were now running towards him. Don scrambled to his feet. They 
reached the door of their own copter. As they leaped in Vitale yelled at 
the crewman, "You set the charge?" 

"Yes sir, she goes in another thirty seconds... shit!" 
Some sixth sense seemed to warn Don. He whirled just as 
another group of Mexican soldiers leaped out of the whirling dust from 
nowhere. Vitale was on the starboard door guns in what must have 
been microseconds and Hennie Nel opened fire with his Schmeisser. 
All of them twirled and twisted and tumbled except one huge mestizo 
who leaped onto Don with a long dagger or bayonet in his teeth. The 
Valkyrie began to rise rapidly into the air, as Don and the Mexican 
grappled, half in and half out of the door, the Mexican trying to draw 
back far enough to stab Don around the protruding machine gun 
barrels while Don tried to twist his gun muzzle inward enough to fire 
and hit the man who clung to him like a leech. A hand holding an old- 
fashioned BOSS issue 7.65 Walter PPK leaned out and fired, sending a 



The Hill of the Ravens 

bright brass cartridge casing into the air. The Mexican's skull popped 
open like a pinata, bloody crimson and white bone and brain fragments 
spraying, and he twirled back down to earth. Just as his corpse hit, the 
downed Valkyrie exploded into a ball of flame. 

Strong hands pulled Don into the copter. "Thanks, partner!" he 
yelled as he strapped himself in. 

"Dit maak niks, " said Nel. 



The Mormon refugees all made it Home safely. They had been 
fed and warmed and clothed, and the transport copters were revving up 
to fly them to the reception center in Twin Falls. A gaunt and weary 
man with a battered slouch hat, a long yellow beard, and wearing 
patched denim coveralls appeared out of the gloom. He saw Vitale's 
general's stars among the men standing by one of the campfires 
drinking coffee and eating field ration meals from tin plates. He spoke. 
"General, my name is Carter Jurgenson, elder of the stake you rescued 
today. Our bishop was murdered in Provo when they came for us. The 
man who was killed today, your helicopter pilot. What was his name?" 

"Warrant Officer James Lawson," said Vitale somberly. "Born in 
Nacogdoches. Texas. Died a soldier of the Northwest American 
Republic." 

"My son was born at four o'clock this morning. Warrant Officer 
Lawson died to make sure he lived, and lived in freedom. Now my third 
sister wife and I know what his name is to be. James Lawson 
Jurgenson." 

Vitale and the men around him raised their canteen cups. I 
hope you don't mind a toast in coffee, Elder Jurgenson," he said. "Long 
life and prosperity to your son, and we appreciate your naming of him 
for Jim Lawson. In the circumstances. I think the TLI can consider him 
to be a son of the regiment, so to speak. Do me a favor, will you? In the 
years to come, keep me posted on how he's doing as he grows, and if 
I'm still around when he comes of age, and he feels it is the right path 
for him, I can promise him a berth in the military academy at 



H. A. Covington 

Sandpoint. For personal reasons I won't get into, I am highly interested 
in his situation. It parallels... another such, long ago." 

"The Saints pay their debts, General." said Jurgenson. "He'll be 
there." 



On the flight back Nel was silent until they were coasting 
downward into Olympia. "What now?" he asked. 

"We now have to deal with the possibility that Tom Murdock 
thought he was going to combine forces with the Port Townsend Flying 
Column for a major joint attack on every ZOG facility in Port Orchard," 
said Don. "If that is the case then it would explain quite a bit about his 
seemingly odd behavior on that morning, why he kept the whole 
column together instead of splitting into three or four mobile sections. I 
would be extremely interested to learn just how Commandant Murdock 
came by that impression. I do know that in the almost four decades 
since the ambush at Ravenhill, there has never been the slightest hint 
in any history of those events ever written that the Port Townsend 
Column might have been in any way involved." 

"And since President Morgan was at that time the commandant 
of the Port Townsend column, then he would of course know if there 
had been any such plan. And he said nothing, before or since," said Nel. 

"No. Nor did he make any statement to that effect when he was 
leading the official inquiry into what happened at Ravenhill," said 
Redmond. "This is the first we've heard of it, and that only by accident." 

"It seems that we have a few gaps in our information," said Nel 
neutrally. 

"Gaps that John Morgan seems curiously reluctant to fill in. 
There is something else going on here we don't know about." said 
Redmond, "I should have mentioned this to you before, Hennie, but I 
wasn't quite sure of what it meant. Charlie Randall told me that about 
twelve years ago. President Brennan called off the WPB's search for 
Trudy Greiner. He did so at the personal request of none other than the 
Old Man himself." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Called it off? What on earth for?" asked Nel in astonishment. 

"I don't know. I can only assume that at some point, someone 
discovered something that made it more politically inexpedient than 
otherwise for the truth to come out. Whatever that reason might be and 
however unofficially, the government abruptly brought the search for 
Trudy Greiner to a halt. They must have hoped to hell that she was 
dead or at least that she'd stay the hell away from the Republic. Then 
we get that letter saying she's coming back and somebody's ass needs 
covering, fast. Brennan is dead, and I have to face the fact that I can no 
longer rely on the State President to tell me the truth, or at least the 
whole truth. The fact is. I think we've probably got about all the 
information we're going to be able to get after the lapse of so many 
years. There is only one more avenue of information I can attempt to 
explore, and that is to find out what happened back in Brennan's 
administration. I'm going to try to get permission to speak with the Old 
Man." 

"How will you do that?" asked Nel. "I understand he is in 
complete seclusion and retirement now." 

"Hey, it helps if you're married to the President's little girl," said 
Redmond. "I can go straight to the top without cutting through too 
much red tape and inform the head of state that it is necessary to my 
investigation that I speak with the President Emeritus." 

"What if Morgan refuses to let you see him?" asked Nel 
skeptically. "I say again to you that in the real world there are certain 
limits to BOSS'S power. General Capshaw could sign an order getting 
you in to see the Old Man, to be sure, but he would want to know why. 
And would he do so if President Morgan objected?" 

"If Morgan objects, then we'll know," said Redmond with a 
shrug. 

"Know what?" asked Nel. 

"We'll know that Morgan knows more than he is telling and that 
there is something he doesn't want to come out. Why he gave me this 
assignment to begin with if that is the case I don't have a clue, except 
maybe I'm supposed to act as a plumber. Test for leaks, so to speak." 

"And if that happens, then what?" persisted Nel. 



H. A. Covington 

"We wait for Trudy Greiner to arrive, if she does, and we see 
how it plays out," replied Redmond. "If she ends up as fertilizer without 
a public trial or any public admission that she was ever here, that will 
tell us what we want to know as well. And don't ask me what then? 
Because I don't know what the hell then!" 

When they got back to Olympia it was past nightfall. Don sent 
Nel home, but he himself returned to his office in the Temple of Justice. 
He typed up and printed two copies of a short document, put one into 
the file folder on the Greiner investigation, slipped the second copy into 
his vest pocket, and then called over across the street to Longview 
House. "Is the State President still in his office?" he asked Morgan's 
aide and secretary. 

"Yes, Colonel," replied the young man. "He's a workaholic, as 
you know, but he should be knocking off for dinner around eight. Mr. 
Nash is cooking up some kind of sausage and greens and mashed 
potatoes dish. It looks disgusting but I've eaten it before and it's quite 
good, and I'm sure President Morgan wouldn't mind some company." 

"This is official business, Captain Barringer, not family and so I 
would rather speak with the President in his office. Can you buzz him 
and ask if I can step over and have a quick word?" 

"Certainly, Colonel Redmond." The captain came back in less 
than a minute. "Come on over whenever you're ready, sir." 

Don crossed the cobbled plaza and the street to Longview 
House in the gathering autumn darkness, checking in at the gate and 
saying hello to a different SS guard and the same GELF dog. He 
stepped up onto the portico of the house and was startled to feel a hand 
on his shoulder. Don turned, and in the yellow light from the faux 
ironwork gas lamp on the porch he found himself facing old Corey 
Nash. Nash was wearing the same threadbare blue blazer and flaccid tie 
it seemed he had been wearing ever since Don knew him, the dress of 
an alcoholic bellhop or an usher at a seedy funeral home. 

The old man's rheumy eyes stared at him from a leathery face. 
"Barringer said you wanted to see John C," said Nash. "I know what's 
going on. I know what John C. told you to do. What are you going to say 
to him?" 



The Hill of the Ravens 

Don looked at him. "Mr. Nash, at the time of the Ravenhill 
ambush you were sometimes used as a courier between the Port 
Townsend and Olympic Flying Columns. Do you have anything you 
want to tell me about that time in your life?" 

"The last time anyone asked me about that time of my life, as 
you put it, was when you was still trying to get into Sarah's jeans back 
in Bellevue," said Nash. "Some blokes from the FBI. They used a 
dentist's drill. I didn't tell them bugger all either." Don was suddenly 
struck by the similarity between the old man's Rhodesian accent and 
Hennie Nel's. 

"I understand," said Don, and he did. He knew that nothing on 
earth would force the old codger to reveal anything at all he did not 
wish to reveal about John Morgan, to anyone, and he could not bring 
himself to try. He turned to go inside, but Nash held his arm. 

"Don, you know I've never in my life asked anything of you," 
began Nash tentatively in an odd, subdued voice. 

"Not only have you never asked anything of me, I think that's 
the first time in over three decades you have ever even spoken my first 
name out loud," said Don in amazement. 

"Yah, well, maybe that's been a mistake on my part. I'm asking 
something of you now. This business you're working on. Leave it! Tell 
J. C. you've got no idea what the bloody hell's going on and just walk 
away from it. There are things in this country's past that have been 
buried for most of a lifetime and they need to stay that way. Just leave 
it, son. Just walk away!" Nash's voice was urgent and plaintive in 
supplication. 

"Someone has been just leaving it for a long time," said Don. 
"But now we can't cuff this anymore, Corey. What do we do when Trudy 
Greiner walks across the border at Mountain Gate in less than two 
weeks' time?" 

"We do what was done before," said Nash. "I did my duty then 
and I can do it again. You know the drill. You grab her ass, you bring 
her into a room with me, and you lock the door. You go have a nice long 
smoke on one of them cigars himself gave you. When you come back, 
there will be no more problem." 



H. A. Covington 

'Trudy Greiner isn't Hillary Clinton, Mr. Nash." said Don. "She 
is, or was. one of us, a soldier of the Northwest Volunteer Army. She is 
coming here to be tried in public, before God and her country, on the 
charges against her. Not to be left alone in a room with you." 

"Since when did you become so damned high and mighty?" 
growled Nash. 

"I'm not. I'll do it the old way if I have to." said Don. TTI even 
do it the old way if I'm ordered to. But before I do. I have to know not 
only that it's necessary, but that it's right. Now you have a choice. You 
can either tell me what the hell happened back then, or else I'll keep on 
digging until I find out on my own. Did Corby Morgan have anything at 
all to do with the destruction of the Olympic Flying Column?" 

"Did... Morgan... ?" said the old man slowly, disgust in his 
voice. "You know, son, I thought a lot about you over the past thirty- 
odd years, not much of it good. But until this night, I never thought you 
were fucking stupid. I've got bangers and mash on the stove, and 
cabbage. Stay to dinner, boy. Cabbage is brain food and you bloody well 
need it." The coot turned and stumped around the corner of the porch 
to his kitchen. 

Don Redmond found the State President in his upstairs office 
with two sideburned men in 1890s collars and cuffs, stolid in pinstriped 
broadcloth and with gold watch chains dangling. He knocked on the 
door for admission. "Come on in, Don," said Morgan. "You know 
Jacques Comeaux and Roland Stanford of the Revenue Commission? 
Gentlemen, my son in-law, Colonel Donald Redmond of the Bureau of 
State Security." Don shook hands with the two bureaucrats. "Don, do 
you have any idea what that damned Bismarck floating fortress of 
Bloody Dave Leach's is going to cost us? I tell you, the folks in this 
country are lucky that our Constitution forbids any form of income 
tax." 

"You put a few more pence on the pint and you're going to 
revive moonshining as a cottage industry!" protested Don. 

"Actually, Colonel, excise is booming. This year we're looking at 
our best import-export ratio ever," said Comeaux with a smile. "The 
NAR is among the last reliable manufacturers in the world of 



The Hill of the Ravens 

medicines, high tech components and machinery that actually works. 
The same countries that pillory us on the floor of the United Nations 
send us trade delegations sneaking in through Canada begging for our 
products." 

"Never mind," said Morgan. "I'm about ready for some eats. 
Corey's got some of that cabbage and potatoes and sausage of his 
bubbling away downstairs. Are we through, gentlemen? Sure I can't 
persuade you to stay for supper? If not, thanks for coming by." After a 
few more pleasantries Morgan ushered the two men out the door under 
the care of Captain Barringer, then closed the door of the office. 
"What's up, Don?" asked Morgan. Don surprised him by formally 
standing to attention in front of his desk. 

"Mr. President, as part of the investigation into the Greiner 
affair which you have assigned me, it has become necessary for me to 
request your permission to interview the President Emeritus of the 
Republic." 

"Great jumping Jehosophat, boy, what the hell do you want to 
talk to him for?" demanded Morgan roughly. "You want listen to some 
senile old loon babble, I can call in Corey from the kitchen. Or I'll even 
do in a pinch." 

"Actually, I just had a rather interesting if somewhat cryptic 
conversation with Mr. Nash on the subject. It is a necessary part of the 
investigation," repeated Don. He handed Morgan the piece of paper he 
had prepared. "I am making this request officially and formally, in 
writing. A copy of this request will be attached to my final report and 
included in the case file. If you decline to grant me permission to see 
him, sir, then as far as I am concerned, that is the end of the matter. 
You are after all State President and commander in chief. Or I should 
say it will be the end of the matter until Trudy Greiner arrives on 
October 22 nd , if indeed she does. But if you decline to give your 
permission, I would like you to so note that refusal at the bottom of my 
request, in writing. I don't expect you to give your reasons, either in 
writing or verbally, if you should choose not to do so. But I want it on 
record." 



H. A. Covington 

"And why on earth do you want to nail my hide to the barn door 
like that?" asked Morgan, incredulous. "What the hell did I do to bring 
this on?" 

Don's reply was low and even. "This has nothing to do with 
hides or barn doors, sir. I want your refusal in writing so that when this 
cluster-fuck, whatever it is, comes apart at the seams and blows up in 
all our faces, as I have reason to believe it will, then at least it will be on 
record that I didn't pass the buck." 

"If you see the Old Man, will you be able to prevent it from 
blowing up?" 

"That depends on what kind of answers I can get from him, if 
any. And on what kind of sense those answers make, if any. The 
President Emeritus is of a very advanced age." 

Morgan pulled out an ink pencil, scrawled something on the 
bottom of the paper, and handed it back to him. "All right, you can go 
and listen to the mummy mutter. Be out there at ten tomorrow 
morning. I'll call ahead and let his honor guard know." 

Don let himself into his front door very late, accompanied only 
by the silent Baskerville. He found Sarah sitting alone at the kitchen 
table, in the dark. "You were in battle today," she said tonelessly. "I felt 
it. I always do when someone meets you with death in his heart." 

"Yes," he said, sitting down beside her and pulling her head 
onto his shoulder. 

"I also know that things aren't right between you and my 
father," she said. "How bad is this going to get?" 

"I wish I knew, Snoops," he said softly. "I wish I knew." 



Harold Covington 



IX. 



The Old Man's retirement estate was a large, beetling mansion 
of cut gray granite and limestone on verdant Bainbridge Island, west of 
Seattle across the Puget Sound. It resembled a large English manor 
house from the Queen Anne period, sporting gabled roofs, diamond- 
paned windows, and ivy-covered walls, with a large artificial lake and 
park garden at the rear. The great house had been built in the late part 
of the nineteenth century by one of Seattle's lumber barons. In the early 
1920s it had been purchased and expanded by Mr. Roy Olmstead, 
Seattle's primary bootlegger and the man who quenched the thirst of 
millions on the West Coast during Prohibition. The cellars still 
concealed large secret chambers where cases of liquor and mammoth 
hogsheads of ale smuggled down from Canada had been stored prior to 
shipment to points onward. In the latter part of the twentieth century 
the mansion had served as the love nest of a computer tycoon. Then it 
had been the crash pad of a rock star who blew his girlfriend's head off 
with a shotgun in one of the bedrooms and then stepped into the 
Jacuzzi where he slit his own wrists. The ghost of the rock star and the 
murdered groupie were alleged to walk the halls at night, wailing. 

"He like ze ghosts." The two BOSS men stood in an office off the 
mansion's vestibule with a white-uniformed, blond young nurse from 
Quebec. Beside her stood a tall, crew-cut SS lieutenant in dress black 



The Hill of the Ravens 
with silver piping as required by the formal nature of his post. The 
nurse was speaking. "I fear zem, but he say he finds zeir caterwauling 
restful. He say it reminds him of how we beat zem and destroy zeir 
world. He is a very strange man." 

"He always was," said Don. 

"But he is very much ze true gentleman," responded the French 
girl. "Most old men sink zey can pinch my bottom and get away with it 
because they are old. This patient has treated me with nothing but 
courtesy and respect." 

"Yeah, he's kinder odd," agreed the SS man. "Course, I guess 
you get that way at his age. Christ on a raft, you been through 
everything he done been through, I reckon you got a right to get a little 
funny in the head!" 

"Weird in what way?" asked Redmond. 

"Well now, you look at this house," said the officer, gesturing 
around him. "Seventy some-odd rooms, but we use about a dozen of 
them. The rest of them are closed up with sheets over the furniture. The 
Old Man himself lives upstairs in only three rooms that used to be 
servants' quarters, one bedroom and a living room and a small kitchen, 
with a toilet and shower down the hall. We got a cordon bleu chef here, 
just for him, but he insists on trying to cook his own food. Major 
Ferguson, the OIC here, had to get permission from the Home Office to 
disconnect his stove in his rooms. He might start a fire. Now he sneaks 
into the main kitchen at night and we'll find him boiling a can of beans. 
He says living like that makes him feel at home. Really weird. They say 
he was from one of the richest families in North Carolina, left there and 
joined the American army at seventeen and he's been living dirt poor 
ever since. They say he laughed when the Feds put him in his first 
prison cell at Florence. Said it was twice as big as his room in Earl's 
Court back in London, back in the '80s when he was on the run from 
the Greensboro grand jury. He seems to have issues with animals. 
Keeps trying to kill all the ducks in the pond out back, sets' traps for 
'em, tries to sneak up on 'em and beat them to death. He has this big 
aquarium full of fish, and he'll sit watching them for hours. He has two 
cats, and the fish drive 'em crazy, and he thinks that's funny as hell. He 
reads a lot, nothing since 1914, a lot of 



Harold Covington 

Dickens and whatnot. Like he's trying to crawl back inside the 
past, when here he done made the future for all of us. I ast him about it 
once, and he told me he's done what he come here to do, he ain't 
interested in this world any more, and the only reward he wants is to 
live in the nineteenth century for the rest of his life. Says his main goal 
in the afterlife is to get a blowjob from Emily Bronte, wants her to 
wuther his heights. Not Charlotte, because she was an ugly bossy little 
bitch and Jane Eyre was soppy subjective hackwork, whatever the hell 
that means. I wouldn't know. I'm still tryin' to finish Moby Dick I 
started in seventh grade. " 

"He really enjoys it when we bring children," said the French 
Canadian girl. "Ze staffs kids, or from ze local Lebensborn. He is 
happiest when he is playing with zem, especially very young ones, 
toddlers. He helps zem build with blocks and race zeir toy cars. I made 
a joke with him once, I ask him if he was in his second childhood. He 
said 'No, my first." 

"He really loves the kids but he sure hates them ducks!" 
commented the SS man. 

"Colonel, he will most certainly try to beg tobacco from you," 
said the young nurse anxiously. "Ze doctors all agree, he mustn't have 
it! He is still quite active for a man of his incredible age, but his body is 
as fragile as glass. Even something like a temporary carbon monoxide 
intake from smoking could kill him!" 

"How is his mind these days?" asked Redmond. "I keep hearing 
that he's senile." 

"He goes in and out," replied the SS man. "Not so much senility, 
as it is he just gets crotchety and foul-mouthed and very weird." 

"With adults, never with ze children," said the girl. "He wants to 
take long walks in ze woods alone, which we can't allow because he 
might get lost or hurt, and so he tries to sneak away. We wanted to put 
an ankle bracelet on him so we can find him if he wanders off, but ze 
State President said it would be too much ze indignity, since he is such 
a great man." 

"We had to take his guns away, as horrible and disrespectful as 
that sounds in view of what he did so that we'd have the right to keep 



The Hill of the Ravens 

and bear arms, because he was a danger to himself and others," said the 
male officer. "He kept getting drunk and shooting out his window at 
anything that moved, ducks on the lake or squirrels in the trees or 
birds. Or just shootin' out other windows, laffin' and cacklin' like a 
loon." 

"Where on earth does he get drink?" asked Nel. astonished. 

"I'm damned if I know!" snapped the SS lieutenant in 
exasperation. "We've found everything from whole beer kegs to mason 
jars of moonshine to vintage champagne bottles in his room. He even 
got hold of a big bottle of two hundred year-old Napoleon brandy once, 
and he wouldn't give it to me unless I helped him drink it. I ought 've 
just took it away from him, but dammit... he's the reason there are any 
white people left in the world. And I got to admit, it was damned fine 
sippin' liquor." 

"I go up and find zem both drunk and singing about shipping 
zose niggers back," said the nurse in exasperation. 

"Hit war a old Hatenanny song mah daddy taught me," said the 
lieutenant defensively. 

"Duty is a harsh taskmaster sometimes. Lieutenant," 
commiserated Redmond with a straight face. 

"But how does he get drink?" asked Nel again. 

"I think he has this underground network of supporters who 
smuggle hooch to him somehow," said the SS man. "That's the only way 
I can figger it." 

"Well, he'd be an expert at that," chuckled Redmond. "I recall 
that many years ago, long before the revolution and even before the 
Migration, the Old Man was famous within the Movement for being 
able to survive with just a few very loyal supporters. Sounds to me like 
he's retained the knack." 

"Yeah, well, you can laugh about it. Colonel, but you ain't the 
one who's gone have to explain to Corby Morgan how the Old Man 
done drunk hisself to death on mah watch!" snapped the SS lieutenant. 

"You a Carolina man yourself?" asked Redmond. 

"Uh, yes sir, Wilkes County, up towards the mountains. I've 
been Home about six years now. How'd you know?" 



Harold Covington 

"I recognized the accent. How is it back in the old country these 
days?" 

"Not good. War a lot of white people there once, but not no 
more. Nothing left 'cept real old folks who don't speak Spanglish. All 

Mexicans and Filipinos and gooks and Somalis now. My family, we was 
among the last to leave for the Homeland. That was one reason they 
chose me for this detail. The Old Man was from Carolina originally and 
maybe they figured... you say you from back home, sir?" asked the 
young officer. 

"I was really young when we Came Home, but yes. A place 
called Chapel Hill. Don't recall much, but I remember my uncle Matt 
had the same speech. Way before your time." 

"Matt Redmond?" gasped the officer. 

"Yeah." 

"He was a great man, sir, Carolina's noblest and bravest son!" 
said the officer, in awe. "It is my honor to meet you." 

"Matt Redmond was a great man, yes. I'm Don Redmond, and 
I'm not. How was your trek Home, LT?" 

"Uh, kinder rough," said the young man with an embarrassed 
smile. "Me and my brother and my sister Jenny and her man worked 
our way west, with whatever fake papers we could get, then when we hit 
the DMZ in Montana we went into the woods. We were all fairly 
experienced, did a lot of hunting back home, and we were almost able 
to make it, but I think some damned heat sensor or something tripped 
us up. We took the gap outside Holter Dam in the Missoula salient." 
The young man's face saddened. "We ran into a Yankee patrol lying in 
ambush when we were within a few hundred yards of the border, which 
up thar is some little creek the name of which I never got. They warn't 
real Yankees, they was muds of some kind, talking some language or 
other. We Cullises, we all made it. Jenny's boyfriend Kevin McNamara, 
a real Yankee kid from up Boston way, he didn't. They shot him and 
tried to drag his body away. Goddamned animals probably wanted to 
eat him." 

"I think they wanted the bounty," corrected Redmond gently. 
"The United States government now pays sixty thousand dollars a head 



The Hill of the Ravens 
for any white person apprehended trying to enter the Republic. Dead or 
alive." 

"Maybe. Anyway, I had an old .357 Magnum from my 
grandaddy that was a sheriff, and he also had some ammunition 
stashed he told us about when he was on his deathbed. The cartridges 
were old but they were factory, not reloads, and so they still worked. I 
shot a couple of the muds and they ran off. We humped Kevin across 
the creek, bleeding like a fountain. The SS picked us up on the white 
side and the medics did all they could, but he was dead. I calculate 
Kevin actually died on Homeland soil, so he got what he wanted. I'm 
glad. He was a good man, Yankee or not. Anyway, I didn't have no skills 
or nothing, in North Carolina they don't let white boys into college no 
more, leastwise not if they like girls. Whites gotta have a so-called 
character reference from the right people in order to get beyond high 
school, only they're really the wrong people. So I joined the army here 
in the Republic. Soon as I did my three years in the gray, I put in for the 
black. I calculate I owe the Corps." 

"I see," said Redmond. "That was an honorable decision on your 
part, comrade." 

"Comrade?" asked Lieutenant Cullis, brightening. "You a Nazi, 
sir?" 

"I am." 

"I guess I am too. I had to read White Power and study the 
Twenty-Five Points of the NSDAP and the Cotswolds Declaration and 
the Ten Principles and the NSWPP Program and answer questions on 
'em in order to get into the SS. It all made sense to me." 

"I am a National Socialist, and I am also a detective. That 
carries with it a certain natural skepticism. Uh, son, you made SS 
lieutenant in three years, you are placed in charge of the detail 
guarding the father of our country, and you expect me to believe this 
Jethro Beaudine act?" inquired Don curiously. 

"I calculate I'm qualified for my job. Did I mention the time 
when I was sixteen and Sister J. was thirteen and some niggers laid 
hands on her, sir?" said Cullis quietly. "They never touched a white girl 
again. Or any girl." 



Harold Covington 

"You know, there was a time when white men would have done 
nothing about that," commented Redmond. 

"Then they weren't men, they were yaller dogs. Did I mention 
what happened to the Somali cops and the FBI men who came after me 
for hatecrime? I still don't think they've found 'em all where I left 'em 
to rot up on Sourwood Mountain or Candletop. I lived in the woods for 
a few years before we decided to risk Coming Home, Jenny and Kevin 
and others bringing me food and powder." 

"Powder?" asked Nel. 

"Because of the Schumer Act hit war kinda hard to get hold of 
proper weapons and ammo, so I snuck into a machine shop in 
Wilkesboro and I made myself a black powder rifle," explained Cullis. 
"Hit war a flintlock, old Kentucky Daniel Boone type. We had a lotta 
flints up on Candletop, and you can melt down fishing sinkers and cast 
old-timey lead balls outta them thangs. You can pan the sodium nitrate 
out of fertilizer and mix it with sulphur and charcoal and you got 
yourself black powder. Kept me full of venison and squirrel and rabbit, 
and I popped me some muds with it as well. Still got that ole home- 
made piece of mine back in my locker at the SS barracks. Anyway, all 
that time, we heard stories about this place, this country far to the 
Northwest, a country where there weren't nothing but people who 
looked like us. Sometimes we didn't even believe that such a place 
really existed, that it was just something the Jews made up to justify 
what they were doing to us, but we knew that we had to come here and 
see. And always we heard of this one name, a name now spoken only in 
whispers in his own land of birth, the name of that old man sitting 
down there by the lake cussing the ducks. Do you have any idea what I 
will do to anyone who ever attempts to harm him?" 

'There's no need for me to wonder. The SS does not choose men 
like you lightly, son. I know that. Those pips on your shoulder tell me 
that you passed some of the most extensive psychological analysis and 
testing in the world. If you weren't the best man for this detail, you 
wouldn't be here. Glad you made it past the gap, troop," said Redmond. 
"Sister J. found herself anybody yet?" 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"Yes, sir, a German, immigrant to the Homeland like us, a 
commo engineer, real fine feller named Johann. They're expecting their 
first baby in about two months. The scan says it's a boy, and Yo and 
Jenny agreed he's going to be named Kevin. Horst Kevin Barkmann." 

"And when are you two going to quit fooling around on the back 
stairs when the Old Man isn't looking and get married?" inquired 
Redmond. The French girl blushed. 

"Monsieur... !" she protested. 

"I'm a detective, remember?" he reminded her. "So I detect." 
"Uh, I ain't actually ast Celine yet... " mumbled the young man, totally 
nonplussed. "I mean, hell, she's a nurse, she's eddjicated, and I'm just a 
peckerwood from down in Carolina. I reckon she knows how I feel 
about her, though." 

"I know," said the French girl, her eyes downcast. 

"You heard the lady. She knows. I suggest you get on the stick, 
son. We need some time alone with the Old Man, and that will provide 
you with an excellent opportunity to remedy that little omission." 

"It might do at that," agreed Cullis. "Colonel, if you will follow 
me I will be honored to take you to the President Emeritus of the 
Northwest American Republic." 



They found the ancient creature sitting on a marble bench 
looking out over the lake, scowling at the ducks as if they were vile 
enemies badly in need of chastisement. As they watched, he tossed 
bread to them, finally luring one of the birds onto land and close 
enough to him. Then he lashed out with his heavy, silver-topped 
blackthorn cane with surprising speed. But he was not fast enough. The 
duck scuttled back into the water, swallowed the bread, and quacked at 
the Old Man. It sounded for all the world like a jeer. 

In the far-off, largely unremembered time when Aryan racial 
nationalism in North America had numbered only a few thousand 
scattered, fragmented and dysfunctional people in a hundred factions 
who did not yet dream of coalescing into a nation, one of the 
Movement's favorite pastimes had been smearing and vilifying the Old 



Harold Covington 

Man. Don recalled that one of the more idiotic accusations against the 
former General Secretary and State President Emeritus was that he had 
weighed 300 pounds. This had never been anywhere nearly true, but 
Don remembered some old photos, and he knew that the man before 
him had once indeed been a portly and Falstaffian character, bearded 
and often sporting red suspenders and a broad-brimmed hat. Other 
enemies of the media and Judaic persuasion had called him "an evil 
Santa Claus." The massive thick body and the suspenders were gone 
now, although the beard remained, thin and straggly. The man who was 
now well entered onto his second century settled back on the bench and 
leaned on the heavy blackthorn cane with the wrought silver head, 
patiently waiting for another of the ducks to come within striking 
distance. His hands were white and his knuckles swollen and gnarled, 
riddled with liver spots. As of old, a broad-brimmed fedora perched 
rakishly on his head, which beneath the hat was as bald as an egg. His 
body was shrunken and his shoulders were stooped. The white beard 
was stained brown with ill-gotten nicotine around veal-colored lips. It 
flowed from his gaunt face, down over a sunken chest. He wore a tweed 
jacket, brown corduroy trousers and soft leather brogan-style shoes. 
His eyes were small and black, sunken in mounds of pallid flesh, and he 
muttered to himself as Don and Hennie Nel approached. The Father of 
His Country no longer resembled Falstaff. Now he looked and sounded 
like an insane garden gnome trying to beat ducks to death. "Barking 
mad, ek se, "whispered Hennie Nel, shaking his head sadly. 

"Good morning, Mr President Emeritus," said Don formally. "I 
am Colonel Donald Redmond from the Bureau of State Security, and 
this is my partner, Sergeant Hendrik Nel." 

"Goie mora, sargant, " said the Old Man, continuing to stare 
out at the lake. "Hoe gaan dit metjou van mora? " 

" 'Nhieke goed, 'n bieke slegs, "replied Nel in surprise. "Dankie, 
Meneer Staatsprasident. Kan ekfrajou van waar hetjou geleer die 
Afrikaans taal ompraat? " 

"I was fortunate enough to see South Africa before you hairy- 
backed rock spiders threw it away. You Afrikaner idiots voted yourself 
out of existence on March 17 th , 1992," said the Old Man. "I remember 



The Hill of the Ravens 
the day. I was sitting in an empty corridor in at the Morgan Grenfell 
merchant investment bank in London. I was a security guard, making 
sure no one crept in to steal the rich people's money. Toffee-nosed 
twits. Gormless gits. Thatcher's children. That's where I was the day 
South Africa died. That is where I was when our Folk's youngest child 
disemboweled herself. Now I suppose you want us to invade South 
Africa and do what your fathers didn't have the guts to do?" 

"I want what every South African and Rhodesian who ever came 
here wants," said Nel. "I want to go back to my own true huisland. " 

"Your people are now almost gone, Hennie," Redmond 
reminded him gently. "There are more Afrikaners here in the 
Homeland than there are remaining in South Africa." 

"It doesn't matter. Jan Van Riebeeck started with less than a 
hundred men. We can do it again if we ever get the chance. Give us the 
guns, Meneer Staatsprasident. Give us the weapons, the transport, the 
supplies, and some money, and we'll do it ourselves!" said Nel. 

"I wanted to do just that, jong, " croaked the Old Man. "Many 
years ago when it might have been possible. That is one of the reasons I 
am now Emeritus. I suppose I should be glad they sent me here instead 
of having me whacked, pretending ZOG did it and making me a 
goddamned martyr. Pat Brennan and his so-called Pragmatic Tendency 
said I was endangering the existence of the Northwest Republic. Got to 
live in the real world and all that crap. Threw my own words back at 
me. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit! The existence of the Republic is not 
important. The existence of the Aryan race is. My views on the matter 
did not carry. They never did, not really. The result is that I am no 
longer State President, and I no longer in a position to do any damage 
to anything except these damned ducks. Can't do that either anymore. 
That chawbacon up at the house and his French chippie took my guns 
away. Any relation to Matt Redmond?" asked the Old Man of Don. 

"I have the honor to be his nephew, sir," said Don. 

"Any man who bears that name is always welcome in my 
company, Colonel. Matt and me go back a while, you know." 

"Yes sir, I know." 

"Chapel Hill High School, class of 1971. the both of us. Back in 
'70, after Kent State, we spent a great springtime afternoon pelting 



Harold Covington 

hippies and commies with rocks and full milk cartons from the 
lunchrooms on the high school campus." 

"What is a hippie?" asked Hennie Nel curiously. 

The Old Man ignored him. "God Almighty, do you believe I was 
once sixteen years old? I don't believe it myself, most days. Matt went 
his way and I went mine. Matt used to say about me that there but for 
the grace of God went he. I said the same thing about him. Matt's dead 
now, isn't he?" 

"Yes, sir. Many years ago." 

"Heather too?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Mmmm, I kind of thought so, but my memory plays tricks 
sometimes. Heather was a fine woman. He lucked out there." 

"So I often heard him say, sir. Tori's still alive though. And Big 
Bill Vitale. He's a general in the SS now." 

"Oh, yeah, Bill Clinton's by-blow. The one Matt and Heather 
sent to Sicily so the Mafia could hide him from ZOG. Good for him. 
They ever tell you that story?" 

"Yes, sir," replied Don. "Actually, you may recall that yourself 
told us that story. It is now recognized throughout the Republic as one 
of our most heroic sagas. Your novel about those events was seminal." 
"My novel was, and is, a facile piece of crap," replied the Old Man. "It 
was written in the heat of immediacy before the true implications of 
those events during the age of the first Clinton were evident. It is a 
museum piece, and not a very interesting one. It is a cameo snapshot of 
an epoch of what we now know was very minor madness, although we 
were really hot and bothered by it at the time. That novel is hopelessly 
dated. It is completely insufficient to do justice to the times and to the 
characters, and it deserves to be cast onto the dungheap of history. 
Events had already passed it by three months after its publication. That 
is the problem when one writes of contemporary events, and why I 
always preferred historicals. The situation that existed in the year 
1999, when I wrote that book, is now completely irrelevant to anything 
in the real world. There was a time when we thought the Clintons were 



The Hill of the Ravens 

the be-all and end-all of liberal evil, and in truth they were bad enough. 
We forgot the terrible evil that could be done by the pale and soulless 
white men in the business suits. We forgot that from democracy steps 
forth the crudest of tyrants. Little did we know the cataclysm that 
would follow. The truly bad craziness started afterward, when Bush 
Two staged his coup in 2000 and all of a sudden the Constitution was 
dead and we had a president who was not elected, but appointed by the 
Supreme Court. A president who was a tool of the most black-hearted 
and inhuman forces in history, and a moron to boot. Bill Clinton was a 
wretch and a murderer, a drug-addicted asshole and a traitor who sold 
military secrets to the Chinese, but he never tried to conquer the world 
like his bird-brained successor did. Matt and Heather and Tori were 
genuinely heroic figures beyond any ability of my ridiculously 
inadequate keyboard fingers to portray. So let's get down to the nitty- 
gritty. What is it? You want to put a suit on me and trot me out like a 
department store dummy at some damned ceremonial bullshit 
function or other? Fine by me, I could use a day out. But I want 
you to gimme a box of stogies, good ones, and a gallon jug of 
Jack Daniels or cognac, one of the two. If you want a speech I'll 
do that too and I promise I won't cuss, but for speeches I charge 
two boxes of cigars and two gallons of hooch. How you get it past 
the SS and into my grubby little paws is something for you to 
figure out." 

"No, sir, we don't need you for any public or ceremonial 
occasion. I would just like to ask you a few questions." 

"That comes with a price too," the old loon grunted. "You 
smoke those same Dominican cigars your uncle Matt did?" 

"When I can get them," said Don. "I don't have any on me, 
I'm afraid. I do have a rolled Havana, though." 

Covetous greed flared in the Old Man's black fathomless 
eyes. "That Wilkes County hillbilly up there at the house won't 
let me have any smokes, but me being a living goddamned icon 
and all that crap they won't actually take it away from me if you 
give me one," he said. "Odin might strike 'em down with 
lightning, me being such a godlike critter and all." 



Harold Covington 

"Sir, I need some information from you," said Don. "If I 
give you this cigar and endanger your health against the advice 
of your physicians, will you promise to help me by telling me the 
truth as best you can remember it?" 

"Now why would you speak so disrespectful to the father 
of your country, young man?" snarled the Old Man. 

"Because I really do need to know some things, and I 
would rather not waste your time and mine if it turns out you're 
really crazy as a coot like they say," replied Redmond calmly. Nel 
gasped in horror at such blasphemy. Redmond quickly waved 
him to silence. 

The Old Man cackled with laughter, slapping his knee. 
"Hot damn, son, I ain't been insulted in years!" he gasped in 
mirth. "Jesus Christ on a raft, that's music to my ears! I used to 
feed off their hatred and their insults, their lies and their 
slanders! Hate, boy, hate kept me young all those years! I've had 
nothing but respect and flattery and mooncalf adoration for 
years now and I'm so sick of it I could puke! Reckon your uncle 
told you that about me, didn't he?" 

"He did in fact once remark to me that you were like a 
punch-drunk boxer who came to enjoy the pain of being hit," 
agreed Don. 

"Yeah. I eat it like candy. Guess it must be important 
then," said the Old Man. "Okay, give me that stogie and then tell 
me what the hell it is you want. Whatever it is, I'll give it to you 
straight. That's what I spent my life doing, son. Giving it to the 
world, straight. I'm obliged for the opportunity to do it again.'* 

Redmond pulled out one of Morgan's cigars, removed it 
from the tube, cut it and placed it in the Old Man's mouth, then 
lit it with a match. Nel was rigid with horror. "Sir!" he hissed. 
"The nurse said..." 

"This is more important, Sergeant," said Redmond evenly. 

"'More important than my life?" asked the Old Man keenly 
as he drew in on the cigar. 

"It may be. yes, Mr. President Emeritus," replied Don. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"'Good for you! Duty overrides all. Thanks. Hot damn, 
that's cool and fine on my tongue! And to save you the time 
probing and guessing. I'm pretty much in my right mind today, 
at least as much as I ever was. Damn, that's fine tobacco! Gift of 
the gods, boy, gift of the gods. Okay, son, spill it." 

"Sir, I'm here to consult you on a case I'm working on now 
for the Bureau of State Security," replied Redmond. 

"It must be something really obscure for you to come 
looking for me. kid. I been out of touch with pretty much 
everything political ever since Pat Brennan booted me out here 
to crumble into dust because he was scared I'd invade South 
Africa, restore the white government, beat him in the general 
election, make the NS Tendency the dominant force in 
Parliament, and establish a National Socialist state. Brennan and 
that little pissant who stabbed me in the back and took over my 
job as General Secretary. Civil war, my ass! Brennan's dead now, 
you know. Old age, no less! But hell, I asked for it. A hundred 
years on and I still haven't learned never to trust anyone in the 
Movement. Been betrayed so often by my own people I must 
have some kind of karmic sign taped on my back that says 'Kick 
me!" So what can I do for BOSS. Colonel?" 

Redmond was silently relieved that the old gentleman had 
elected not to pursue an obsessive political tirade that would 
have made it difficult for Don to wrestle him back on track. "Sir, 
I would like to ask you why as one of your last political acts, 
before you retired, you asked President Brennan to call off the 
War Prevention Department's hunt for Trudy Greiner?" 

"Because she didn't do it," grunted the Old Man. "Trudy 
Greiner wasn't the traitor." 

"Magtig!" exclaimed Nel. "I mean, how do you know that, 
meneer?" 

"I got bored once Pragmatic Tendency threw my ass out," 
grumbled the ancient curmudgeon. "I was sitting in a big fancy 
office down there in Olympia with no real power, waiting for my 
loyal comrades to work out the details of where and how they 
were going to bury me alive where I couldn't embarrass them any 



Harold Covington 

more, with all my ranting and raving about duty and ethics and 
all the other things we've always tried to avoid like the plague. I 
had a lot of time on my hands. There was this little girl file clerk 
who believed all that propaganda crap about how I was this 
brilliant leader and philosopher king, yadda, yadda, yadda. She 
thought I was some kind of revolutionary god, and I was able to 
persuade her to feed me some special reading material against 
orders. Able to persuade her to do some other things, too, but we 
won't get into that. Anyway, I spent my time catching up on all 
the things that went on when I was in prison, the stuff I missed 
out on while the fighting was going on. I took the trouble to 
actually read the raw case file on Ravenhill," said the Old Man. 
"All the statements taken for the trial in absentia of Volunteer 
Gertrude Greiner on the charge of racial treason and 
collaboration with the enemy. I spotted something no one else 
ever had. The FATPO defector Arthur McBride stated that the 
head nigger in charge of the Federal ambush was informed of the 
Column's location and projected route at almost exactly two 
o'clock on the morning of August first, after which he ordered 
his men out to the choppers and dropped them into the ambush 
zone at Ravenhill Ranch. You with me so far?" 

"Yes, sir, I know," confirmed Redmond. "Sergeant Major 
McBride is still alive, and we have spoken with him. McBride 
was Charge of Quarters at the FATPO barracks and he heard 
Woodrow Coleman take the call on his wireless phone. McBride 
also stated that it was unusual for Major Coleman to be up and 
about, or at least up and about while sober, at that time of the 
morning. It was obvious to him that Coleman had been told 
something was up and he was waiting for the call." 

"And where was Trudy Greiner at two o'clock that 
morning?" demanded the Old Man. 

"By all accounts, she was still at the safe house in 
Hoodsport, along with Murdock and the rest," said Redmond. 

"Right. Now, Colonel, do you agree that as a working 
proposition we can take it that the statements given by the eight 



The Hill of the Ravens 
survivors are true, with the possible exception of one traitor who 
may be lying, if such a person exists?" 

"We more or less have to, sir," conceded Redmond. "At 
this distance in time, their statements then and their 
recollections now are virtually all we've got by away of evidence." 

"I agree. Now, there are some crucial times in those 
witnesses' statements that we need to peg down. The first is the 
receipt of the call by the Federal commander at or almost exactly 
at two o'clock A. M." 

"Sir, when I was reviewing the case file a few days ago at BOSS 
headquarters, I noticed the time element. Murdock's decision to 
take Highway 119 and then cut off on the county road by 
Ravenhill Ranch before they reached Shelton must have been 
made either right at around two in the morning or before that, 
because the informer gave FATPO that information." 
"Fine, I'll buy that," agreed the Old Man. "So the informer was in 
a position to know that exact route that the Column would take 
into Port Orchard. That could be any of them. But with Miss 
Greiner in plain view at two in the morning, the big question is, 
who made the call?" 

"The official version is that somehow Trudy Greiner found 
some excuse, slipped into the bathroom and make a hurried call 
tipping off Fattie while she was surrounded by men and women 
who would kill her if she was caught. It would have taken brass 
balls to do it, but everyone who ever knew her agrees that she 
was a fearless and resourceful young woman. I have since 
learned that at least insofar as anyone who was present can 
recall, this was impossible for her to do. Not only did Ed 
McCanless collect and turn off all cell phones, but Trudy's phone 
wasn't even working because the satellite serving her unit had 
crashed. I am also aware of some other discrepancies, but I'm 
sorry, I seem to be interrupting you, sir. Please proceed." 

"You wear that green, white and blue ribbon, sonny." 
pointed out the Old Man, "Although Jesus, you must have been 
young!" 

"Very young, sir," agreed Redmond with a nod. 



Harold Covington 

"Back in those days, did you ever attend a meeting in a safe 
house?" 

"A few," said Don. "Like the one I delivered papers to in 
Bellevue." 

"And what was the very first thing the officer in charge ordered 
all the others to do?" asked the Old Man. 

"Turn off their cell phones and pagers, so an accidental 
incoming call or page didn't tip off the enemy's satellite 
monitoring or other electronic surveillance that there was 
anyone in the facility," repeated Redmond patiently. 

"And after that he...?" 

"He also swept the personnel present for wires." said 
Redmond. "Yes, sir, I thought of that. Just as he swept the whole 
house beforehand. Volunteer McCanless and Volunteer Frierson 
have both stated in no uncertain terms that they checked the 
house out from the ground up and it was clean, and that they ran 
metal and fiber-optic sensors over every participant in the 
meeting, beginning with Commandant Murdock as Murdock 
always insisted be done. We are assuming that is true, unless 
Frierson or else one or both of the McCanlesses are traitors and 
were lying." 

"Right. On that particular night Ed McCanless. a particularly 
conscientious Volunteer, swears that he made damned sure this 
was done. Lars Frierson, equally conscientious, backs him up. I 
see no reason to disbelieve them. Have you any evidence that we 
should?" 

"No, sir." 

"Then we'll take what they tell us at face value. Are we 
still on the same page?" asked the Old Man. "Sorry to come on 
like such a know-it-all and act like the great detective revealin* 
the murderer in the drawing room at the end of the mystery, but 
I never get a chance to talk to anyone about anything serious 
these days." 

"Yes, sir." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"So we agree that Gertrude Greiner did not make any kind 
of call at all from her own cell phone, then or later, because the 
communications satellite was down in every sense of the word 
and also due to NVA security precautions. We can also accept 
that no one was wired. That means that the communication with 
the enemy did not occur from the vicinity of the central meeting 
in the safe house. It came from someone who was not present at 
the meeting, and yet who was in a position to know the planned 
route and order of battle for the next day*s operation. Now, the 
Greiner gal left the safe house at what time?" ' 

"Approximately three o'clock in the morning," said 
Redmond. "Which is the last time anyone in the NVA ever saw 
her. I would dearly love to know what she was doing during the 
four hours between the time she left and the time she was 
officially AWOL from the medical aid station at seven that 
morning. Any ideas on that, Mr. President Emeritus?" 

"One or two. But we're still at three o'clock in the 
morning. Trudy Greiner has just left, the meeting has been 
dismissed. Whereupon the Column did what?" 

"They moved out, some in cars and others on foot. They 
moved overland about a mile to the lumberyard where the 
vehicles to be used in the attack were being held in readiness. 
The convoy was assembled there, seating was assigned, and so 
forth. The mortar truck and the McCanlesses' Oldsmobile moved 
out one way, along with the Kenworth flatbed containing the 
mortar tubes. The two vans, the second truck, and the green 
pickup scout vehicle went another." 

"They left the lumberyard at what time?" 

"Approximately five-thirty A. M., sir." 

"And Monkey Meat Coleman got the call at two A. M.?" 
continued the Old Man. 

"Two in the morning, yes, sir. As the Column were pulling 
out, he and his goons were already setting the ambush on the 
road past Ravenhill Ranch." 

"Now go back to the court of inquiry transcript," said the 
Old Man. "Look at McBride's testimony. He said when his 



Harold Covington 

FATPO group were briefed before they left base and went down 
into the ambush that morning, they were told by Major Monkoid 
Coleman to be on the lookout for two vans, one blue and one 
white, and one Kenworth truck with wooden slat sidings." 

"Yes, sir, I saw that. Those are in fact the vehicles that the 
Column used." agreed Redmond. "So?" 

"Don't worry, son, I ain't wandering. I do have a point, 
but you seem to be missing it. I'll pitch it again, a little bit 
slower. When Coleman got that call from the informer or 
someone who was hooked to the informer, what was he told to 
look out for?" 

"He was told to set his ambush for a green Dodge pickup 
truck scout vehicle, which Coleman ordered his men to let pass, 
and then a blue van, a white van, and the Kenworth truck which 
carried the... Christ in Heaven!" bellowed Redmond in sudden 
astonished chagrin. 

"Comes the dawn!" chuckled the Old Man. 
"What, Colonel?" asked Nel. uncomprehending. Redmond turned 
and stared at Nel. 

"How the hell did the informer know what color the pickup 
and the vans were?" demanded Redmond. "By everything we 
know. Trudy Greiner never went anywhere near the staging area 
with the vehicles. And if she did, it would have been after three 
in the morning, when she left the conference. Somebody would 
surely have seen her, including Palmieri and Saltovic and Leach. 
Surely at least one of them would remember her being there? But 
Coleman got the call at two A. M." 

"Ergo, the informer was someone who had been involved in 
vehicle selection, transport, fueling and staging prior to the 
meeting in the Hoodsport safe house!" exclaimed the Old Man 
triumphantly. "Which Trudy Greiner was not. That wasn't part of 
her job. We also know that whoever made the call was not in the 
meeting at the Hoodsport safe house. It is possible that the 
person who made the call was a secondary contact, but I myself 
have always been of the opinion that the person who called 



The Hill of the Ravens 
Coleman was the actual informant, mostly because of the 
incredible danger which would have been attached to bringing 
someone else into something like that. Not to mention having to 
share that humongous reward." 

"I'll need to go back to all of them now and find out who 
was involved in the preliminary staging and servicing of the 
convoy's vehicles," moaned Redmond. "Even if seven of the eight 
are telling me the truth, it may be impossible to determine after 
all this time who had actually seen the vans prior to the 
meeting." 

"No need," said the Old Man. "We can still do some 
elimination with what we've got. Time, place, and opportunity, 
son. 

Check the statements of Dr. Joseph Cord, and also of Lars 
Frierson, and also of Edward McCanless and Brittany 
McCanless. Bear in mind we are assuming for the time being that 
they are true, lacking any evidence that they are not. Cord and 
Frierson attended the entire meeting in the living room of that 
bungalow from beginning to end, so they could not have made 
the call. Ed McCanless was also there at all times in his capacity 
as security officer for the sitdown, and his wife was there as well, 
according to both their statements. They indicated that they 
arrived at the safe house that afternoon so they could go in first 
and make sure everything was hunky dory and then let Murdock 
and the rest know it was safe to move in. They specifically stayed 
away from the lumberyard where the heavy artillery was waiting, 
in case they were being followed or tracked by satellite. They 
probably at that point didn't even know where most of the other 
members of the Column were. Frank Palmieri and Dragutin 
Saltovic did stage the mortar truck at the lumberyard along with 
the other vehicles, but as of two A. M. when the traitor called 
Monkey Meat and dropped the dime, they didn't know that they 
were going to the target area separately. 

Whoever made the call knew that the mortar truck would 
be taking a separate route, but for reasons known only to himself 
neglected to mention the mortar truck at all when he ratted our 



Harold Covington 

people out to Fattie. So that rules Palmieri and Saltovic out. 
Cord did go to the lumberyard briefly, to run a final check on the 
loading and detonation system and the hydraulic lift to raise the 
mortars in position, after which he proceeded to Poulsbo with a 
carload of medical supplies. But the informer's call had already 
been made at 2 A.M. So Cord, Palmieri, Saltovic, Frierson and 
the McCanlesses seem to be in the clear, as well as Trudy 
Greiner." 

"That leaves Leach and Vitale," said Nel in a neutral voice. 
"They were in the lumberyard area prior to the meeting breaking 
up and no one has accounted for their whereabouts at two A.M." 

"Leach and Vitale were both just gun-toters then, Vitale a 
green kid just off the plane from Italy," said the Old Man. "Yeah, 
it could have been them, maybe, but would they have known 
about the mortar truck splitting up from the main convoy and 
taking a separate route into town, any more than Saltovic or 
Palmieri? No one at the yard was actually informed of that 
disposition until Murdock and the officers arrived at a little past 
three. Call was made at two, gents, the call was made at two, and 
if it had been made by someone in or around the staging area 
they would have told Coleman to watch for the mortar truck as 
well. Whoever made it had some kind of prior knowledge of 
Murdock's plan of attack on Port Orchard. Someone who was an 
officer or otherwise involved on a command level." 

"Which to be frank, Meneer Staatsprasident, does not fit 
any of our survivors, with the half-assed exception of Doctor 
Cord who was a technician but not a strategist or field 
commander," said Nel. 

"Nor does it fit Trudy Greiner for that matter," 
commented Redmond. "She was support and liaison but had 
nothing whatsoever to do with actual military decisions or 
planning. My God! You mean to say, sir, that you believe the 
informant was someone else?" 

"Someone else in the Column who didn't survive the 
ambush?" said Nel in horror. "Someone we don't know about? 



The Hill of the Ravens 
Someone who thought he had a deal with the Americans to let 
him live, but who was betrayed? Cies, if that's the case then we 
might never find out what the hell happened that day!" 

"Sir," asked Redmond, "Do you have any idea at all who 
such a person might be?" 

"Yes," said the Old Man. "Don't worry, son, I won*t run the 
melodrama out. I can't give you an actual name, but in a general 
way, yes, I think I know who it was. I think it was whoever Trudy 
Greiner went to meet after she left the Hoodsport safe house at 
three o'clock on the morning of August 1 st . Someone who knew 
what was going to happen, and who either forcibly detained her 
from going to the aid station, or else persuaded her that she was 
about to be hopelessly compromised and she'd better desert if 
she wanted to live." 

"How do you know any such person exists. Mr. President 
Emeritus?" asked Redmond. 

"It doesn't take four hours to get from Hoodsport to 
Poulsbo, Colonel, not even in the dark. But more close to home, 
Volunteers always moved in pairs, son, whenever possible," said 
the Old Man. "Especially when they were closing in on a target. 
It simply wasn't a good idea to rely on loners not to lose their 
nerve, not to get lost, not to fuck up, or not to get caught or 
delayed through no fault of their own. Why did Trudy Greiner 
leave the house on her own that morning? That looks like a 
potentially dangerous violation in procedure to me. But was it? I 
don't think she was violating procedure. I think she was meeting 
someone else for some purpose we don"t know, and she was 
doing it on Murdock's orders.*' 

"Leach and Frierson said they got that impression," Nel 
reminded him. 

Redmond took a deep breath and spoke. "Mr. President, 
Bill Vitale told us the he overheard one small snippet of 
conversation between Commandant Murdock and Volunteer 
Melanie Young, just before the Column pulled out at five, that 
indicated to him there might be some kind of rendezvous 



Harold Covington 

planned with the Port Townsend Flying Column. Can you shed 
any light on that aspect at all?" 

"No. I can't," said the Old Man. "Why don't you ask that 
old hoss who's sitting in my chair down in Longview House right 
now about that?" 

"There has never been any suggestion of any such thing," 
said Redmond evasively. He felt a chill. He had a horrified 
suspicion he might know who Trudy Greiner had been meeting. 
Nel unwittingly came to his rescue. 

"But what about the million dollars?" he asked. 
"Yes," Redmond said. "One almost insurmountable obstacle that 
we have yet to overcome, Mr. President Emeritus. The one 
million dollar certified check allegedly collected by Trudy 
Greiner first thing on the morning of August first, at the opening 
of business while the bodies of the Flying Column dead were 
literally still bleeding. Every which way we turn, we keep coming 
up against that." 

"Do you know for a fact that million bucks was collected 
by Trudy Greiner?" asked the Old Man keenly. "Do you know for 
a fact that million bucks ever existed at all?" 

"No, sir," said Redmond morosely. "It did occur to me. We 
do not know that for a fact. All we have is a few photostats of old 
Bank of America documents and computer files. We have no idea 
whether what we are looking at ever existed in the form of one 
million real, spendable dollars or not. Did Trudy Greiner end up 
with that money in her kick? If not, who did? We have no idea on 
earth, and at this distance in time we have no way to find out. 
That thought has bedviled me no end, believe me." 

"Any ideas at all, son?" probed the Old Man. 

"None I want to speak of at the moment, sir, with all due 
respect," said Redmond in growing despair. 

"Well, why not just wait until Trudy Greiner walks across 
the border on 10/22 and see what the hell she has to say about it 
all?" asked the Old Man curiously. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

"I get the impression, sir, that the present State President 
is especially anxious for that not to occur, at least not without 
some idea of what skeletons might be found by anyone who 
starts poking through the Ravenhill closet." Redmond rose to go. 
"Mr. President Emeritus, you have been extremely helpful, more 
so than anyone we've talked to yet. There is one final question I 
would like to ask you, sir, and I very much hope that you will 
choose to answer me. and answer me truthfully." 

"And that is?" prompted the Old Man. leaning back and 
sending long, aromatic swirls of cigar smoke into the air. 
"Exactly who was it who contacted you and warned you that I 
would be coming, and what I would be asking you about?" asked 
Redmond levelly. "And when did this occur?" 
"You know, at my age senility comes and goes." said the ancient 
creature, blowing a smoke ring, "l can geezer it up real quick. In 
fact, I feel a real funkey fogey fugue coming on." 
"Maybe that's why you forgot that I never at any point in our 
conversation informed you that Trudy Greiner was coming back 
on October 22 nd ," said Don. 

"Maybe so. Son, believe it or not. I do retain some sense 
of responsibility to this Republic I helped to create. I could give 
you a name and one of two things would happen. Either I'd wake 
up one night to find Charlie Randall standing over my bed with a 
pillow in his hands, or else it would explode into a full scale 
scandal, the top ripped off a major league can of worms and 
them worms crawling all over the Northwest and pooping worm- 
shit all over this country that is the only hope of our race to 
survive. I'll pass on that, but I'll tell you what I told. ..that 
individual that I spoke with. I told him that every word I told 
you would be the truth, and it has been." 

"Thank you, sir," said Redmond. 

"Uh, Meneer Staatsprasident, I have a question as well." 
spoke up Nel suddenly. "What on earth do you have against 
these ducks?" 

The Old Man grinned at him through a haze of cigar 
smoke, and all of a sudden they caught a glimpse of the almost 



Harold Covington 

Satanic malevolence that alone had sustained him through a 
century comprised mostly of living hell. "They're big, soft white 
things who just waddle around and do nothing. When they open 
their mouths nothing but blat comes out. I always had a problem 
with big, lazy white things who waddle around and do nothing 
and just blat when they open their mouths," he said. "You see, 
for fifty years, those were our leaders in the so-called Movement. 
I couldn't crush them then like they deserved, so I crush them 
now. Or try to. Ain't no better at it now than I was then." He 
looked out at them. "Every one of them has a name. The name of 
a piece of pale-skinned shit who should have died in mortal 
agony long ago, if there was any justice at all. But there never is 
any justice except what a man takes for himself. Like I said, 
every one of them has a name. That one over there by the shore, 
with the dark greasy feathers, that is Matt Koehl. That bloated 
thing out there with the hooked beak is Benny Klassen. He seems 
to have a habit of molesting the other drakes, and that's how he 
got his name. The one with the bald head is Tom Metzger. The 
sleek-looking drake out there is David Duke. Watch him, he'll 
steal the bread right out of your hand while you're not looking 
and gamble it away on the riverboat casinos. The sneaky-looking 
bastard with the black spot on his bill is Pierce. The lazy fuck 
floating out there at a drunken angle is Eugene Terre Blanche, 
which should be of interest to you, Sergeant. Terre Blanche used 
to fall off his horse during parades he was so drunk. The prissy 
little one there who looks like a faggot is Martin Webster, and 
the big fat pompous ass to the right there is John Tyndall. And 
the others, all the others. ..I know their names. Before I die, I am 
going to kill every one of them." 

"I'm sorry to see that you really are insane, sir," said 
Redmond sadly, shaking his head. 

"Always was. son, always was," chuckled the Old Man, 
leaning back on the bench and sending a cloud of ringed cigar 
smoke rising into the cool autumn air. "Nutty as a fruitcake all 



The Hill of the Ravens 
my life. Sane men didn't revolt against ZOG. And sane men 
damned sure didn't win!" 



That afternoon, they both sat in Redmond's office in the Temple 
of Justice. Henny Nel was turning over various pages in the old 
Ravenhill file. The day had gone cloudy and the famous 
Northwest rain was dripping from the windows. "It was 
President Morgan who told him why we were coming," said Nel. 
"Of course it was Morgan! What in God's name is he playing at?" 
responded Redmond in weary despair. "Why this song and dance 
routine? Why did he bring me into this? Why the hell doesn't he 
just tellme? My God, I'm family!" 

"Is there anyone else we could interview before the 
twenty-second comes?" asked Nel. 

"No one I can think of. Anyone who might help either fled the 
country after the revolution, or they're dead or just unavailable. 
You know, I wish to hell we really were the totalitarian state that 
our enemies accuse us of being. A nationwide identification and 
location service would certainly be of help, but since we've 
abolished driver's licenses, unless someone has actually come to 
the attention of BOSS, we really have no way of knowing where 
anyone in this country is other than picking up the telephone 
directory. Odd that a so-called fascist state should have that kind 
of individual liberty, eh? I've tried to find Van Der Merwe with 
no luck." 

"Who?" asked Nel, looking up with interest. 
"J. P. Van Der Merwe. The Bank of America branch president 
who authorized and issued the million dollar check, and who 
would hopefully remember something about that million dollar 
transaction on the morning of August the first. But he's not in 
any of the Republic's phone books, he doesn't have a criminal 
record, and beyond that we're stumped unless we can pick up his 
trail some other way. He may be dead, he may be a loyalist who 
fled the Republic after the revolution and he's now living in the 
States or somewhere else, he may be sitting right down there on 



Harold Covington 

the mall feeding the pigeons beneath the Rockwell monument 
and we wouldn't know." Sergeant Nel riffled through the file and 
found the bank record photostats, then he held them up to the 
light, studying them. "The devil of it is, whatever John C. is 
afraid I will turn up, he's wrong. I still have no idea on earth who 
the traitor is." complained Redmond in weary despair. 

Nel looked up from the papers. "Oh, that's no shupa, eksc. 
I know who it is." 

"Eh? What the hell do you mean by that?" said Redmond 
irritably. 

"I mean just what I said. I know who the traitor is, 
because I know now there never was any million dollar payoff. 
This whole bank transaction is a fraud, and I know who created 
it." Then Hennie Nel told Don Redmond the name of the traitor 
who had betrayed the Olympic Flying Column, and explained 
how he knew. 
"Damn, I am a fool!" muttered Redmond bitterly. 

"Dit maak niks, I just happened to have a little bit of 
background you didn't," said Nel with a shrug. "How could you? 
The question is, sir, how in the name of God are we going to 
prove it? I am as positive as I can be that he's our man, but after 
almost four decades where do we look for any hard evidence? I 
doubt any even exists. I don't see any choice that we have other 
wait for Trudy Greiner to show up and hope she can provide us 
with something concrete. If she can't, she may still end up 
carrying the can for Ravenhill." 

"The thing that puzzles me is motive," sighed Redmond. 
"Why, in the name of all that is holy? What possible reason could 
he have to do such a thing?" 

""We could ask him," suggested Nel. 

'"You don't make an accusation like this with no proof or 
evidence, Sergeant. Nor do I know where to even begin to look 
for any. Unless... it's a long shot, but hell, looks as if we've 
nothing better to do until the twenty-second. Let's go." 



The Hill of the Ravens 



Harold Covington 



X. 



"We need to get inside," said Don Redmond. He and Nel 
were standing in the dark, in a pouring Northwest rain that 
rattled the tin awning roof over the porch on which they stood. A 
sagging swing drooped on one edge of the porch and a sodden 
pile of firewood logs loomed gray and lumpy on the other. It had 
taken some time for them to find the place. Their raincoats and 
the brims of their fedoras were dripping. 

"We don't have a warrant," pointed out Nel. "In view of 
his state connection it might be prudent to get one, just to 
preserve the niceties. In case we find something, or more 
especially in case we don't." 

"I'm willing to go Section 30 on this and cross my fingers it will 
stand up," said Redmond. "If the issue comes up at all." "Ah, the 
Breathing Act," chuckled Nel. 

"You got it, Sarge," replied Redmond. "The lovely Section 
30 of the Offenses Against the State Act. The law that gives us 
the authority to do whatever the hell we think is necessary to 
preserve the revolution and carry out our duties. I know we're 
supposed to show sensitivity and gentlemanly circumspection as 
to when and how we invoke it. Don't want the citizenry to feel 
that they're living in a police state, even if they are, rather. But 
this is a big case, and big consequences hang on it. I'll take 



The Hill of the Ravens 
responsibility. Although just as a historical note, getting a 
warrant was never any kind of legal protection. It never made 
any difference to the American police under ZOG. Warrants are 
meaningless when the judge simply signs whatever outrageous 
piece of rubbish the police put before him. If your judiciary is 
corrupt and your judicial system is broken, why bother with the 
fig leaf of a warrant? That's what I like about the Republic, this 
refreshing absence of hypocrisy." 

"I'd prefer a refreshing absence of rain right now. You 
know, even in BOSS we do have to prove our case before we take 
action, if only to our own superiors. I know he's our man. but I 
don't still think we'll ever prove it. What makes you think we are 
going to find anything in here relevant to a crime committed 
more than thirty years ago. sir?" asked Nel in some exasperation. 
"What would he keep? Why would he keep anything that might 
implicate him in such a monstrous act of betrayal?'" 

"Depends on why he did it," ruminated Redmond. 

"What, exactly, are we looking for?" 

"Generally speaking, something that might at least give us 
a clue to motive. But specifically? I'm damned if I know. Sarge," 
replied Redmond. "I can only hope that we'll know it when we 
see it." 

"Well, let's get out of the bloody rain, at least. Door or 
window?" asked Nel. 

"Mmm, door, I think. This lock must be at least a century 
old. Doesn't even look like it has any electronics in it. Straight 
brass tumblers. Wonder what kind of alarm system he's got 
rigged in there? If any?" 

"Why would he have any alarm system?" asked Nel. "This 
isn't America. No one has to worry about burglary anymore." 
Redmond took out a small folding tool, similar to a pen-knife, 
with a number of oddly-shaped extensions. He diddled with the 
lock for about a minute. It clacked and the door swung open. The 
two men stepped inside. 

"Might as well turn on the lights. No one is going to see us 
this far out in the woods," said Redmond. He snapped a light 



Harold Covington 

switch but nothing happened. "Must run off a separate 
generator," he commented. "A house this old is probably not 
even hooked up with a transformer-converter for the broadcast 
power grid." Nel took out a flashlight and turned it on. Redmond 
took a glow wand from his pocket and thumbed the switch. 
Immediately the room was illuminated in soft light, almost like a 
rising dawn. "I always carry one of these as well as a flashlight," 
said Redmond. "A flashlight is useful when you don't want your 
target to see you, but you want to see him. Always use a 
flashlight if there is any chance at all you're going to be shot at, 
and hold it away from your body. But for a search, a wand is 
best. It lights up the whole room." The two BOSS men saw 
battered, antique twentieth-century plastic furniture, bits and 
pieces of hunting and fishing detritus, and a lot of dust. 

"Not much of a housekeeper, is he?" sniffed Nel. 

"I don't think he comes here often," said Redmond. "I 
only just by chance remembered this place even exists." They 
separated and moved from room to room. The place had a 
dismal, careless, unlived-in look. Redmond mounted the stairs 
and rummaged through an unremarkable bedroom with a single, 
old-fashioned box spring mattress and frame. The sheets and 
blanket were rumpled and the pillow folded; God alone knew 
how long ago the bed had last been made. Suddenly he heard Nel 
call from downstairs; his voice sounded choked and strange. 

"Colonel Redmond! Colonel, you need to come and see 
this!" 

Redmond went back downstairs and moved to the rear of 
the house. The doorway in which Nel stood seemed to lead into 
what might have once been a breakfast nook or small den. 
Redmond held his glow wand high, lighting the darkness of the 
interior, and he saw what Nel had seen. At one end of the room 
was a wooden paneled wall of bare and unpainted pine that had 
gone dark with age, and on that wall was tacked two rows of 
photographs, each one of them blown up into small poster size. 
There weren't many of them, only about a dozen, because the 



The Hill of the Ravens 
woman who featured in them had made it a point to be 
photographed as little as possible. Two of the photographs were 
long-ago police mug shots. They showed a young and beautiful 
girl with long blond hair. Below the wall was a bureau or dresser 
of some kind, draped in a white cloth, and on it stood several 
rows of burned-out candles, the votive kind in small glass 
receptacles. A single chair stood in front of the primitive altar, 
where the sole worshipper of a strange and unhealthy religion 
sometimes sat in contemplation and adoration. 

"Bring your light in as well." said Redmond, stepping into 
the room. In the soft yet penetrating illumination of the 
phosphorescent wand and the flashlight, the slapdash montage 
might have looked cheap and pathetic, but somehow it did not. 
Both men felt a cold and creeping chill in their blood. They 
intuitively understood that they were looking at something 
strong, poisonous and terrible, the outward manifestation of a 
love that had transcended the bounds of time and sanity. A love 
that had developed a life of its own and fed on itself, time and 
again ripping out its own entrails and rising from the 
putrescence of its own grave to live unnaturally over and over. 
There was no bloodstained altar whereon sacrifice had been 
made. That had been done long ago on a hillside many miles 
away. "It's a shrine." muttered Nel. "A shrine to her... wait a 
minute... that's notMelanie Young!" 

"No," agreed Redmond. "I agree, one would think this 
kind of obsession would be over Melanie Young. Hell, our whole 
nation obsesses over her. starting with every teen-aged boy when 
he hits age twelve. But that's not Melanie. That's Trudy Greiner. 
Probably every photograph ever taken of her in her whole life. 
He must have gotten into the BOSS files somehow and made 
copies. I'm sure he could figure a way. Damn, that looks like her 
junior high school class photo! Wonder how the hell he ever got 
hold of that? That's Trudy when she was as young and as 
beautiful as ever Melanie was, to give her fair due. Thank God! 
Thank God! Thank God!" moaned Redmond, leaning against the 



Harold Covington 

creaking, dusty wall in a sudden release of terrible tension from 
his mind and his heart. 

"Eh?" asked Nel. "What do you mean. Colonel?" 
"The betrayal of the Column! This whole hideous mess, all 
those deaths of our people. Thank God, it wasn't religious! It 
wasn't political! It wasn't even for money!" laughed Redmond in 
shaky relief. "It was insanity! Just good old-fashioned, looney- 
tune, they're-coming-to-take- me-away-ha-ha Movement GUBU! 
The kind of nuttiness that was the very hallmark of what little 
community we had back in the Old Man's day. Good old- 
fashioned Movement GUBU, Lord love it! Now I'm going to go 
find the generator for this place and start it up, so we can get 
some proper light on the scene. Then we toss this place good and 
proper, from top to bottom. He may have left something else 
behind." 



'You know. I always wanted to do this, since I saw my 
first Agatha Christie movie," Don Redmond told them all with a 
grin. He was standing in the library at the presidential residence 
of Longview House, leaning insouciantly against the wall, his 
fedora at rakish angle on his head. Before him on the chairs and 
sofas sat a group of ten people. These were former FATPO 
defector Arthur McBride, all eight of the surviving Volunteers 
from the Olympic Flying Column and the State President, John 
Corbett Morgan, who was scowling angrily at Don in a manner 
like piling dark thunderheads in the sky, which presaged 
unfortunate events. 'The detective's dream. I always wanted to 
do the Hercule Poirot number, gather all the suspects in the 
library and reveal the killer's identity through my brilliant 
deduction." 

"It had better be damned brilliant deduction," muttered 
Morgan irritably. "Jesus Christ on a raft, Don, you know I 



The Hill of the Ravens 
wouldn't go along with this kind of dog and pony show from 
anybody who hadn't given me some mighty fine grandkids!" 

"Colonel Redmond, I highly resent the term 'suspect'," 
said Dr. Joseph Cord huffily. "I have the most impeccable 
credentials of anyone here and I am accustomed to receiving 
invitations to Longview House only to discuss and praise my 
work. How long is this going to take? All of interplanetary space 
is my domain, and l have more important things to do than sit 
here and play childish games." 

"How long will it take? How long is a piece of string?" 
asked Redmond. "Don't worry, folks, I've called down to the 
kitchen and asked for coffee and drinks to be sent up, and also 
some herbal tea for you. Mrs. McCanless." 

"And why is that entire sordid incident at Ravenhill Ranch 
being resuscitated in any case?" complained Cord cranklily. "My 
understanding has always been that there was never any doubt 
as to informed on the Olympic Flying Column. It was Gertrude 
Greiner." 

"No, Dr. Cord." said Redmond firmly. "It was not Trudy 
Greiner." 

'Then it was one of us," said SS General Bill Vitale grimly, 
his large frame in camouflage fresh from the front lounging in a 
leather armchair. I have to agree with Dr. Cord, Don. Under such 
circumstances this Mad Hatter's tea party is just a little bit 
wearing. If you have something to tell us, then say it!" 

"Colonel, you must have asked us here for a reason," said 
Brittany McCanless anxiously. "You must have found out 
something new about what happened at Ravenhill. What is it?" 

"It's not so much that we have found out what happened 
at Ravenhill, comrade, but that we have found out what did not 
happen there," said Don. "At a certain point in our investigation, 
it became apparent that Trudy Greiner could not possibly have 
committed the crime she was accused of committing." 

"How could you tell that?" asked Palmieri. 



Harold Covington 

"How could you tell that when my own court of inquiry 
just a couple of years after it happened couldn't tell that?" 
demanded Morgan. 

"Oh, you were in charge of that, were you, sir? Oh, yeah, I 
remember now. I read it in the file." Don turned to the others. 
"We were lucky enough to make one key discovery which very 
understandably escaped you at the time, Mr. President. You 
weren't fortunate enough to have a partner from the Transvaal. 
To begin with, the question of motive struck me as significant. I 
couldn't quite get a take on why Trudy would betray her 
comrades, including a man whom everyone agrees that she 
loved. All of you still living who knew her personally have 
concurred that betrayal for money, no matter how much money, 
was totally out of character for Trudy Greiner." 

"I agree. I never bought that," said Leach, shaking his 
head. 

Redmond continued. "Gertrude Greiner had no other 
conceivable motive other than the possible one of jealousy, and 
everyone who was there seems to agree that this was also 
unlikely. She never exhibited any symptoms of jealousy and 
seemed to accept the situation between her former lover 
Commandant Murdock and Melanie Young. As a certain 
someone told me at the beginning of this case, she was a good 
soldier. Neither did Trudy have the opportunity to commit the 
crime. Her cell phone was down because it depended on a 
communications satellite that crashed, she was in the middle of 
the meeting at the safe house when the phone call to the FATPO 
commander was made, and to make a long story short, so far as 
we could determine it was impossible for her to be the culprit. 
That indicated to me that there was at least one other person 
involved." 

"That person might be dead or fled to the States or Aztlan 
long ago," Transportation Minister Palmieri reminded Redmond. 

"True, but the fact that he or she existed was significant to 
me. Hell may hold no fury like unto a woman scorned, but 



The Hill of the Ravens 
jealous women contemplating a murder of passion usually do not 
involve third parties. Such a thing is too intimate. Nor do they 
take another fifty uninvolved people along for the ride. Most 
importantly, we now know that whoever made that call conveyed 
information to the enemy which Trudy Greiner had no way of 
knowing, specifically the number and type and colors of the 
vehicles that would be in the NVA convoy. But there was a 
problem. The one insurmountable obstacle we kept running up 
against, the one damning fact that seemed to prove Trudy guilty 
for all time, was the one million dollar payoff which was 
allegedly collected by her on the morning of the ambush," said 
Don. "In the heat of the revolution's aftermath, just coming out 
of a time when betrayal was so terribly common in the NVA and 
some of our comrades had been betrayed to the Americans for 
the price of a bottle of whiskey, this motive was very convincing 
indeed. Very early on it struck me that we had no real evidence 
Trudy had ever actually received the money. Old photocopies of 
computer printouts do not rank high in my estimate of evidence. 
In point of fact, we had no indication that anyone had ever 
received that money. No original documentation. No 
photographic evidence or actual fingerprint ID, which was in use 
at the time. Only a notation on a piece of paper that such an ID 
had been provided, and that struck me as odd. There wasn't even 
a signature on what documentation we had. Oh, come on, now! A 
woman walks into a bank, she gets handed a check for a million 
dollars, and they don't even get a signature? But then, a faked 
signature was a little bit beyond our traitor's technical 
capacities. He could dummy up computer-generated material but 
not handwriting, at least not well enough to fool an expert 
graphologist if one ever looked at it. He knew his limitations and 
so he avoided that trap. That was what first tipped me off that 
something was off kilter. No signature on any kind of document 
or receipt for a million dollars? Not even a photostat? Then I 
spoke with Charlie Randall who had participated in the hunt for 
Trudy on behalf of the WPB, and he told me that the one time 
they actually got close enough to make any personal 



Harold Covington 

observations on their target, the poor woman was a poor woman 
in every sense of the word, definitely not living a millionaire 
lifestyle. More and more, I became convinced that there never 
was any million-dollar payoff, at least not to Trudy Greiner. But 
after all this time it was impossible to prove, one way or another. 
Then it turned out that the Bank of America vice president who 
allegedly signed the million dollar check never existed." 

"How do you know that, Colonel?" asked Lars Frierson 
keenly. 

"I didn't, at first, and I probably never would have, but 
fortunately my detective sergeant was a bit more on the ball than 
I was," admitted Redmond. "He spotted something 1 never would 
have spotted." 

"Only because I happen to be an Afrikaner, sir." said Nel. 
"A cultural thing. I noticed that the alleged vice president of the 
bank who signed the draft order for the one million dollar check 
was one J. P. Van der Merwe." 

"So what?" demanded President Morgan impatiently. 

"You didn't grow up in South Africa, Meneer 
Staatsprdsident. I did, or what was left of South Africa after the 
horror of March 17 th , 1992. In this country we tell Wyoming 
jokes. In Ireland they tell Kerry jokes. In South Africa we tell 
Van der Merwe jokes. There is no Jaapie Van Der Merwe. He's a 
fictional character, a national joke name, like Joe Six-Pack or the 
Jukes and the Kallikaks, like Tommy Atkins the typical British 
soldier, like G.I. Joe or Jimmy Higgins, like Tyl Eulenspiegel 
among the Germans, or Cowboy Bob in our own Wyoming jokes. 
Jaapie Van der Merwe is a kind of Afrikaner Everyman. He has 
many lives and many silly adventures in our culture, Meneer, but 
signing off on million dollar checks to traitors who betray the 
white race is not among them. Suppose you had seen those 
computer printouts on that million dollar check and it had been 
issued by Vice President Joe Doaks or Beavis N. Butthead? That 
is what it looked like to me." 



The Hill of the Ravens 

The double doors to the library swung open and old man 
Nash came shuffling in, pushing a tea cart loaded with a large 
coffee urn, cups, glasses, and liquor and beer bottles. "This is 
your party, so you can do your own damned bar-tending!" he 
snapped at Don. 

The rest of them ignored him, fascinated by the story Don 
was unfolding. "So you're saying that the Olympic Flying Column 
was betrayed by a South African?" asked Admiral Leach in 
puzzlement. 

"Or someone who knew who Jaapie Van Der Merwe is," 
said Nel, standing and beginning to move toward the door. "You 
know, they call us Africa's White tribe, and in a way we are. But 
long ago, even before we destroyed ourselves, there was another 
White tribe in Southern Africa. A smaller one, but not a bad 
bunch of blokes, really. Most of 'em, anyway." Nel slid his gun 
from his shoulder holster. 

"They were once called Rhodesians," said Don, standing 
as well, his pistol in his hand. "Ironic, isn't it, Nash? That crap 
on those phony bank documents was probably the only joke you 
ever made in your entire bleak and horrible and humorless life, 
and now after almost forty years it comes back to bite you." 

"You bloody kak bastard!" hissed Nel in utter rage and 
loathing, as Nash stared at him. "A crime like this. ..done by a 
white African! How can we ask them now to give us back our 
huisland? You have disgraced us all, forever! You dog!" 

In a proper detective story, now would have been the time 
for the killer to break down and render an emotional confession 
to the group, and then be taken away for some future stern but 
unseen punishment offstage. Prior to his exit he would have 
added in the few details necessary to supplement the brilliant 
detective's deductions. But this was not a mystery. It was a 
horror story, and in the Northwest American Republic 
punishment tended not to be delayed overlong. Corey Nash was a 
very old man, and no one dreamed he could still move as fast as 
he did. Nash hurled a full pint bottle of beer at Don's head, 
turned the drinks cart over with a crash and managed to trip Nel, 



Harold Covington 

and then he turned and tore open the double doors. He dodged 
the outstretched arm of the cursing Sergeant Nel on the floor, 
and he pelted down the hall towards the back entrance of 
Longview House as if he were a youthful decathlete of twenty. 
God alone knew where Nash thought he was going. Where could 
he run to? But he ran. John Corbett Morgan leaped to the 
doorway almost as quickly, where he turned his head and 
bellowed at the top of his lungs. Morgan did not call the SS 
guards. He called the dog. "Bruno! Runner! KILL!" A brindled 
furry form seemed to fly past the open door, five feet in the air. 
The attack dog caught Nash somewhere outside in the rear 
garden, out of sight of the people in the room. There was a single 
pistol shot from Nash's gun, but the GELFs were designed to 
take a bullet or two. For about fifteen seconds the corridors of 
the old mansion rang with the hideous screams of a human being 
who was being torn limb from limb. Then there came an 
appalling silence. Several SS guards appeared at the door, 
submachine guns at the ready. "Mr. President, what the hell?" 
shouted the officer of the guard in stunned amazement. "That 
was old Mr. Nash you just...'* 

"That was a traitor," said Morgan. His voice was ice. and 
his face was stone. "Later, Captain. Don't worry, son, I may be 
old, but I haven't lost my marbles yet. There was a reason. I'll fill 
you and your boys in later on. Right now, get the dog to a vet and 
get whatever is left of that... get it out of here." 

"Yes, sir," said the captain, stunned. Morgan closed the 
door. He turned to Redmond and the staring group of people in 
the library. 

"Corey Nash betrayed the Olympic Flying Column?" said 
Leach in utter amazement. "But how? I remember seeing him 
around camp a few times back then, but I don't remember him 
being anywhere around on that night." 

"There's still a few gaps in the how," said Redmond. 
"Unfortunately, now we'll probably never know what they are. 
unless Trudy Greiner can tell us. l am particularly looking 



The Hill of the Ravens 
forward to her account of what happened during the four hours 
between the time she left the safe house at three in the morning 
and the time she didn't show at seven in Poulsbo. Assuming I am 
allowed to hear it. I'm not sure that will happen. A little time ago 
someone suggested to me that when she crosses the border, 
Trudy be taken to a locked room from which she would never 
emerge. Is that going to happen, sir?" demanded Don of the 
President bitterly. "Is Trudy going to be taken to a locked room 
where she meets someone like Nash? Some O. C. Oglevy, Junior? 
Or a GELF dog? Because after all this, if she's still just going to 
end up as fertilizer in a hydroponics farm, let's just invoke the 
Official Secrets Act and we can all go home right now, all right?" 

"No," said Morgan tonelessly. "That will not happen. I 
thought about it, but no. That will not happen. You have my 
word." 

"Thank you, sir. I am glad to hear it. Getting back to your 
question as to what Nash did and how, Admiral Leach, in a 
general way, we've got that figured out. Nash was acting as a 
courier and liaison between Murdock and the president's own 
column operating in the northern part of the Olympic Peninsula. 
He carried information and orders from the Army Council, stuff 
that could not be communicated over the air or put in writing. 
Murdock naturally accepted that anything Nash told him came 
from higher up, and that was the chink in his armor Nash used 
to destroy him and the others. As such Nash came into contact 
with Trudy Greiner, and he somehow convinced her to tell 
Murdock that John Morgan was going meet him somewhere 
along Ambush Alley that morning along with the entire Port 
Townsend column for a combined mission. He also involved 
himself in the planning of this non-existent plan to the extent 
that he was able to give Coleman of the FATPOs all the details, 
including the make and color of the vehicles in the convoy. This 
kind of combined operation had been done before, with the 
attack on the American aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy, so there 
would have been credibility to the story. That would have meant 
that we would have been able to party down in Port Orchard with 



Harold Covington 

about J 50 people and really do the place up good and proper 
like Quantrill did Lawrence. Kansas in 1863. Level everything 
flying that red, white and blue Masonic dish rag. Murdock must 
have been thrilled at the prospect, so eager to inflict a titanic 
blow against ZOG that he didn't scope the idea close enough and 
spot the holes in it." 

"There never was any such plan," said Morgan. "We 
always avoided that type of major combined operation. Simply 
too much to lose if it went bad. There were rare exceptions of 
course, like the attack on the Kennedy, but those exceptions were 
carefully planned and organized at the highest level." 

"I know, sir, but apparently Nash was able to sell the idea, 
with Trudy's unwitting help. Murdock trusted Trudy Greiner and 
Nash must have convinced Trudy. Afterwards. ..well, we still 
don't know what happened in that four hour time period. 
Somehow Nash must have diverted Trudy Greiner from her 
rendezvous in Poulsbo. most likely when he met her to deliver 
the van we were to use as an impromptu ambulance, and change 
vehicles with her." 

Shaking his head in amazement, Ed McCanless asked, 
"But in the name of all that is holy, Colonel, why? Why did he do 
it? And why did he falsely accuse Trudy?'" 

"And what else did he do down through the years against 
the state?" wondered Morgan grimly. "Have I been harboring a 
spy in my own household all this time?" 

"I doubt he did anything else at all, sir," said Redmond. 
"Em going on my personal knowledge of the man, but my 
opinion on that is also due to the fact that as a BOSS agent I 
have never seen anything that indicated any serious security 
breach anywhere that close to you. Mr. President. My guess is 
that when we get through tearing apart and examining under a 
microscope every day of Corey Nash's life that we can trace, we 
will find that he was an absolutely loyal and. dedicated white 
revolutionary and Party member both before Ravenhill and after. 
My guess is that the betrayal of the Olympic Flying Column was 



The Hill of the Ravens 
Corey Nash's only act of disloyalty to the Republic. I know that's 
kind of like saying 'Other than that, how did you enjoy the play. 
Mrs. Lincoln?' But I am convinced that Ravenhill was a one-shot 
deal with Nash. As to why he did it? The answer is simple and 
terrible. He loved her. Young Trudy Greiner was the only woman 
and probably the only human being that Corey Nash ever loved 
in the normal sense of the word, or as close to normal as a man 
with his terrible past could ever love anyone." 

"I'm sorry, Colonel, you've lost me," admitted Frierson 
frankly. "How in the name of God does Nash's fixation on Trudy 
Greiner lead to the death of fifty-two Volunteers and fitting her 
up for it?" 

"There we enter into the realm of madness," said 
Redmond, shaking his head. "Nel and I did a Section 30 entry on 
Nash's hunting and fishing cabin up along Hood Canal, ironically 
enough not far from Hoodsport, the last meeting place of the 
Olympic Flying Column. We found evidence there that Trudy 
Greiner has haunted Nash all his life since then, a kind of weird 
shrine to her memory and some very disjointed writings in a 
kind of diary." 

"Jo, he was bloody bonkers all right," said Nel, shaking his 
head. "I tried to read that journal or whatever it was. He seemed 
to think Trudy Greiner was some kind of supernatural being, 
sometimes an angel, sometimes a devil, sometimes a kind of 
extraterrestrial being or emissary... the man hadn't the full 
shilling, ek se. Colonel Redmond tells me this kind of thing was 
called GUBU." 

"Love is a kind of madness at the best of times," said 
Redmond grimly. "When it gets bitter and twisted in a mind that 
is already diseased, the results can be truly bizarre, unbelievably 
destructive. GUBU. I believe that the early murders of his family 
in Zimbuggery completely unhinged the man. Look, anyone who 
met old Corey even back in those revolutionary days very quickly 
discerned that he was a few bricks shy of a load. Some of you 
who remembered him from that time told me as much. But we 
wrote it off as mere eccentricity. Our Movement long ago fell 



Harold Covington 

into a very bad habit of tolerating odd and eccentric behavior 
that verged on cackle box material, so long as we felt we could 
get some mileage out of an individual. Some vestiges of this 
survive even today, Corey Nash being a prime example." 
Redmond poinetdly avoided looking at Doctor Joseph Cord. 
"This isn't the only time that extremely dangerous practice has 
come back to bite us. It used to happen all the time back in the 
Old Man's day. We put up with Corey Nash because Nash made 
himself useful in a hundred ways. He talked to himself 
occasionally, true, but on the other hand he didn't rave, he didn't 
stab strangers with scissors, he didn't think he was Napoleon, 
and he was coherent if cantankerous. He found this little niche 
here in the Morgan household as a kind of eccentric butler type, 
so he appeared to be more or less functional in real life. No one 
ever connected him with the Olympic Flying Column disaster." 

"Maybe he didn't mean for things to go that far?" 
suggested Brittany McCanless. "Was the whole Ravenhill thing 
some terrible accident that went wrong? Or God forbid, did he 
do it to her deliberately after he could no longer fail to 
understand that her heart belonged to Tom Murdock even after 
Murdock chose Melanie over her?" 

"I still don't get it, Colonel," said Arthur McBride, shaking 
his head. "He called Woodrow Coleman that night and betrayed 
and murdered fifty-two of his own people just to get this girl's 
attention in some way? Impress her? Impress her with what, the 
fact that he's a bloody bastard? This is way beyond me." 

"How could he think that betraying the Column to their 
deaths would show his love for Trudy?" demanded Drago, 
stunned and appalled. T told you when you spoke to me before, 
the man must have been mad!" 

"As a March hare," agreed Redmond. ""I haven't been able 
to figure out the ins and the outs of it from his disjointed ravings 
in the book, which seem to cover a period of some years. There 
are two possibilities," Redmond went on musingly, rubbing his 
chin. 'As much as I have puzzled over his scribblings, I honest to 



The Hill of the Ravens 
God can't tell which one is correct. The first possibility is that he 
set the whole thing up as a complex revenge for her rejecting 
him. that he planned from square one falsely to implicate her for 
his own crime and betrayal. The second is that he didn't intend 
for it to play out that way. as far as Trudy being blamed for his 
own act of treachery, but somewhere along the line he screwed 
up. He had constructed in his own half-coherent mind some 
bizarre scenario whereby Murdock would be removed from the 
scene by the FATPOs and he would catch Trudy on the rebound, 
possibly after rescuing her in some knight in shining armor 
scenario. The only way to get at Murdock was to go through the 
rest of the Column. The fact that more than fifty Volunteers 
would die alongside his rival evidently meant nothing to him. He 
was living in the world of his own private obsession and nothing 
else was important." 

"Damn!" swore Palmieri, clenching his fists. 

'Trudy would find herself in a tight spot, but one that he 
planned to get her out of and thus earn her appropriate 
gratitude." continued Redmond. "Although we still don't know 
exactly why Trudy didn't show up at her post at the aid station, 
think of what it must have been like for her on that terrible 
morning! Remember, her cell phone was down, and she had no 
way of checking anything Nash told her. All Trudy knew was that 
the whole Column was gone and anyone who survived might 
have been an informer. Where else would she turn? He set this 
whole thing up so that Trudy would be forced to turn to him as a 
matter of survival. Turbulent and violent times such as 
revolutions can present a lot of opportunities like that. This man 
staked it all on one big chance to become Trudy Greiner's knight 
in shining armor, saving her from a charge of treason and 
elevating her to revolutionary heroine status, and then reaping 
his reward, or so he thought in his mind. But something went 
wrong. ..jeez. I wish I knew what it was! I wish l knew what he 
said or did in those dark morning hours so long ago. I suspect it 
is a horror story, but only she can fill us in now. Somehow he 
convinced her that she would be accused for what was about to 



Harold Covington 

happen and that her only hope was to E & E. Maybe he asked her 
to go with him. ..Christ, who knows? But for whatever reason, 
Trudy ran. Maybe she just took her own E & E route and planned 
on reporting back later on, but then realized she was being 
blamed for the ambush at Ravenhill and she had to get the hell 
out of Dodge to save her own life. Like I said, there's some gaps 
yet, and some of them may never be fully answered now that 
Nash has been used as a chew-toy by Bruno. But at some point 
later on, Nash painstakingly fabricated the million-dollar 
documents that framed her for the betrayal he himself had 
committed. Whatever he originally intended, in the end the 
swine deliberately made sure Trudy took the fall for him. An 
ironic twist if he originally intended to be her rescuer and hero." 

"No, I can't see it that way," disagreed McBride. "The 
bastard knew damned well what he was doing. I told you that 
Coleman actually had a hand-drawn map describing the best 
terrain for setting up the ambush. Someone actually scouted the 
lay of the land ahead of time, and it wasn't Monkey Meat. 
Someone who is capable of deliberately assisting in the murder 
of his own comrades in that way is not capable of being 
motivated by... romance, however twisted a version of romance. 
My wife and I had a turbulent relationship, but neither one of us 
ever worried one second about all those loaded guns in our 
house. We both knew there was never any need on either of our 
parts. You can sometimes hurt the one you love, may God forgive 
you, but you never destroy them. Destruction isn't love, it's 
hate." 

"I tend to agree. Then there was that whole fraudulent 
bank transaction." said Nel. "Maybe Nash did that later, after 
she refused him, to make sure Trudy would catch the blame and 
she'd be too afraid to come back and accuse him. But I don't 
think so. It's too much of a piece with the cold and methodical 
planning he showed over setting up the ambush. At some point 
he created these hoax computer printouts, dated them August 
the first, then somehow arranged for the first court of inquiry to 



The Hill of the Ravens 
'discover' them. He deliberately had her accused and convicted 
and tried to cause her death, but more than that he caused her to 
be slandered and vilified for all her life as a traitor. That is not 
love, Colonel. That is hate. 

Black, overwhelming hatred of another individual that 
transcends every last boundary of reason or justice or right. The 
hatred of true madness." 

"But surely Trudy must have known that Nash betrayed 
her as well as Murdock?" asked Palmieri. "Why didn't she come 
to the Party and denounce him?" 

"Well, we'll have to wait until she gets here to ask her, but 
I don't think she did know it was Nash at the time," said 
Redmond. "In fact, she may not know it even now. Nash must 
have been the one that met her, delayed her from her post, and 
then after it hit the news that the Column had been destroy told 
her that she must be suspected and she needed to lie low. Even 
now she may not be aware of what he did. In her letter she never 
did claim that she actually had any new evidence, just that she 
was tired of it all and she was coming back to face the music. To 
this day, she may think that Corey Nash was indeed her knight in 
shining armor, the man who saved her. God, what a horrible 
thought!" 

"But if she has no new evidence, no way to prove her 
innocence, why is she coming back?" asked Leach in wonder. 

"Because this is her Homeland," said Redmond. "Because 
by virtue of her blood she has the right to live here and to die 
here." 

Morgan was shaking his head, "Don. ..Jesus, Don, you 
don't mean to tell me that after almost forty years it turns 
out...?" 

"Yes, sir," said Don, his face absolutely deadpan. "The 

butler 
did it." 



Harold Covington 

After the others left in bemusement, Don rounded on 
Morgan. "God damn it, what the hell did you do to me?" he 
roared. "Why? What have I ever done that you should do 
something like this to me? You knew, didn't you? You knew all 
along it was Nash!" 

Morgan sighed and sank into his chair. "I... had an idea." 

"John, you have to tell me!" commanded Don. "Did you 
know it was Nash? Have you nursed this viper in the bosom of 
our family for a whole generation? All this time did you let a 
sister of our race live in hell, disgraced and vilified by her own 
people, solely in order to save yourself from scandal and political 
embarrassment at failing to detect a traitor that close to you?" 

"I'm sorry you think me capable of that, son," said the old 
man sadly. "I'm a bad man, Don, but not that bad." 

"You are capable of whatever you feel is necessary, as am 
I, as are we all. We're Volunteers and it is the way we chose long 
ago. Did you know?" repeated Don. 

'"Did I know? " replied Morgan softly. "No, Don, I did not 
know. Not for certain. As I hope for the salvation of my soul, that 
is the truth." 

"You suspected. And you still did nothing." It was not a 
question or an accusation. It was simply a statement. 

"Can you prove that, copper?" laughed Morgan bitterly. 

"Legally, no. To a moral certainty, yes," said Don. "GELF 
dogs are programmed to respond to the digitally authenticated 
voice commands of certain individuals. They cannot attack any 
person whom they recognize by smell and sound and voiceprint 
as a command-authorized human being. The animal's mind will 
not accept such an order. You ordered the dog out there to kill 
Nash and he did so. That means that Nash was not command- 
authorized for that GELF. I now recall that while you had our 
own family dog Baskerville command-authorized for all of our 
family, including yourself, you did not authorize him with a 
voiceprint for Corey Nash, your lifelong aide and companion in 
arms to our family. That indicates to me that you knew, or at 



The Hill of the Ravens 

least that you suspected, that someday some occasion might 
possibly arise when we might have to be protected from Nash." 
There was silence for a time. 

"The suspicion was there, yes," admitted Morgan. "When 
did it appear in my mind? I honestly don't know. Some time 
back. What caused that suspicion? A word, a glance, a thought? I 
don't know. Just one day it was there and it has gnawed on me 
ever since. There was never any proof, and I did not seek any." 

"You didn't seek any? Mother of God, why not?" shouted 
Don in incredulous rage. "Fifty-two Volunteers, sir! Fifty-two men 
and women of our race butchered by ZOG because one man 
among us was a dysfunctional nut of the kind we should have 
purged from Day One! What did the Old Man tell us from the 
beginning? Never try to get mileage out of creeps? How much 
mileage did you get out of 

Corey Nash down through the years? Enough to justify fifty-two 
dead white men and women? How.. .damn you, John! How could 
you?" Redmond was on the verge of breaking down into tears. 

Morgan spoke to him in a voice of stone. "Do you 
seriously believe, Don, that you can say to me one single thing, 
that you can utter to me one single reproach or accusation or 
denunciation that has not burned into my brain and my heart 
and my soul, night after night for years? Whatever you think it 
may be your duty to curse and rail against me now, I assure you, 
hit war already done. A thousand times over. A million times 
over." 

"Why did you do nothing?" demanded Don. "How could 
you let Nash stay so close to you, to me, to Sarah, to my 
children? You must have known what we all knew, that he was 
never completely right in the head? What were you thinking, 
man?" 

"I believed, and as it turned out I believed correctly, that 
he would never again do anything quite so evil," sighed Morgan. 
"Although that business with Hillary Clinton came close. That 
was an accident, by the way. We didn't. ..never mind, all that's 
gone now. Don, I owed Corey Nash. Owed him big, big time. Did 



Harold Covington 

it never strike you as odd that in all the time you have known 
both of us, I never told you how we met? How he came into the 
family, so to speak?" 

Don frowned. "You know.. .damned if you ever did," he 
said softly, remembering in surprise. "How strange. During this 
whole investigation, that thought never even crossed my mind. 
Nash was just. ..always there. He was the first person who opened 
the door at that house in Bellevue when I knocked on it at age 
twelve to collect my newspaper money. I remember he tried to 
Jew me down on the price. How did you meet?" 

"You know how Sarah's mother died?" asked Morgan. 

"Yes," said Don. "I also know that Sarah ran away from 
the corrective school where they sent her to be de-nazified and 
somehow she was able to get back to you up in the mountains, 
just before you came down to Bellevue to organize Number Two 
Seattle Brigade where I ended up. Sarah and I have never spoken 
of it. It is the one off-limits subject between us. Not overtly 
forbidden, just. ..closed. She's never actually said to me that she 
doesn't want to talk about it. It's just that I've always known that 
to speak of it would hurt her more than any possible good that 
could ever come of it. Over the years we have developed an 
understanding that it's the one and only topic that we will never 
talk about. Once a year or so, Sarah makes some passing 
reference to Vandy, and I pointedly don't take her up on it. I 
believe she notices this, but she has never voluntarily offered to 
lift the taboo, and I have no intention of asking. She obviously 
wants to keep that one door locked, and I have always respected 
her wishes." 

Morgan lit a cigar. His hands were shaking as they held 
the match. "I was in the mountains for the first time when ZOG 
tracked down my family. They were in a safe house in Ballard, 
although it obviously wasn't as safe as we thought it was. Vandy 
saw them coming in time to get Sarah dressed and send her 
running out the back door, but they caught her anyway. That was 
early days, they didn't have the special camps set up then, so 



The Hill of the Ravens 
they took Vandy and Sarah to the King County jail. The Federal 
section was notorious. The FBI and the Department of Homeland 
Security had a. ..they had a special treatment there they would 
inflict on women Volunteers. ..there was this one Jew FBI 
agent..." 

"Sir, I know what happened," said Don. "You don't have 
to..." 

"Did you know they made Sarah watch, in case she knew 
where I was and she'd betray me to save her mother?" asked 
Morgan, staring out the window. 

"Yes, sir. I know. It is a matter of historical record. Odd, 
isn't it? Everyone in this whole country knows what happened. 
Yet Sarah and I are the only ones who pretend we don't. And no 
one speaks of it. No one, not ever, not for forty years. My God, 
what a mighty and magnificent compassion and respect we 
receive as a family, from an entire nation! It fills me with awe 
every time I think of it! How could anyone not love this land and 
this people?" 

"Well, there are some details you don't know. When... it 
happened. ..Corey Nash was in the same jail, on the floor above," 
went on Morgan tonelessly. "He'd gotten caught heisting some 
wheels for the NVA, but the idiots pegged him as an ordinary car 
thief and he was waiting in the bull pen to get bailed out by a 
Party bondsman. Some Seattle cops were taking him down for 
out-processing, they got another call for something or other and 
they tossed Corey into a holding cell on the Federal block until 
they could get back to him. Then they forgot about him until 
noon the next day. An open holding cell. No walls, just bars. 
Right next to where lay what was left of my wife and my child." 

"Ah, I think I understand..." said Don with a nod. "FBI 
Special Agent In Charge Bruce Goldberg. He liked to play with 
electric drills into the skull and turkey basters of acid. Do It 
Yourself lobotomies, he called them. One of their most notorious 
and brutal counter-terrorism operatives. I remember. He and his 
entire family were found dead in their home several months 
later. The family was shot, Goldberg had been burned to death 



Harold Covington 

with the necklace. So that was Nash who did that? Yeah, that 
sounds like his style. I can see why..." 

"No, it wasn't Nash!" snapped Morgan. "Shut up and listen 
to me, God damn it! Christ, boy. do you think that I would leave 
a personal obligation like that to anyone else? That Goldberg job 
was me and Tom Murdock and O. C. Oglevy. No, what Nash did 
in that prison cell... it was nothing less than holy. Sacred, 
touched with the divine spirit of human mercy and compassion. 
Kind of odd that we can speak of Nash in such terms, eh? But we 
can." 

"Tell me," ordered Don softly. 

"Somebody had left one of those old Styrofoam coffee 
cups in the cell he was in. You remember those? It was raining, 
and Nash was able to get up onto the cell's bunk and stick the 
cup into an outside corner of the barred window where there was 
a little drip. It wasn't much, but throughout the night he 
managed to refill that cup again and again. Sarah dragged her 
mother over to the bars and time and again. Corey Nash held 
that cup of water to what remained of Vandy's mouth, and she 
was able to drink a little. And in between times, while he waited 
for that slow drip from the rain to fill the cup in the barred 
window, Corey Nash comforted my ten year-old daughter, who 
was by then quite out of her mind. Sarah had become a child 
again, a little baby, and Nash sensed this. She was talking baby 
talk, curling up in the fetal position, on the verge of shutting 
down her brain and leaving us forever. So he sang to her. every 
children's song he could think of, London Bridge Is Falling 
Down, Mary Had a Little Lamb, Barney the Dinosaur and Great 
Big Gobs Of Greasy, Grimy Gopher Guts, the Alphabet Song, 
anything. He told her every story he could think of. Three 
Little Pigs. Jack and the Beanstalk. Rumpelstiltskin and 
Rapunzel, Little Red Riding Hood, and he held her hand through 
the bars. It wasn't me, it was Corey Nash who was holding 
Sarah's hand in the dawn when her mother died before her eyes. 
Somehow, Nash kept Sarah with us in her mind. He also 



The Hill of the Ravens 

managed to get into Sarah's head an address and phone number 
in Seattle. Afterwards, when she got away from them, Sarah 
didn't come looking for me. She came looking for Corey Nash. 
Nash brought her back to me, past the Fatties and the cops and 
the Homeland Security and the FBI. From that moment on I 
lived in his debt. Please try to understand that, Don. You have to 
remember, this was in the time of It Takes A Village, when white 
children were being stolen away every day. I had already 
accepted in my mind that Sarah was gone forever from me, just 
like her mother. You have Cindy El, you have Eva, so can you 
understand what that means. I had accepted in my own mind that 
my beautiful girl was gone forever, taken from me by the Beast, 
to live the rest of her life at the bottom of a latrine, for all the 
world to piss and shit on. I think I went insane for a time, and I 
probably would have gone Oglevy's way. I'd have been dead 
myself soon after. And then one day up there in the Olympic 
mountains I saw Sarah rise from the dead. I saw Corey Nash 
walk into camp, and he's leading my little girl by the hand. He 
returned my child to me, returned her from the dead. Don, 
whatever you may think of me, that is a debt that one never, ever 
forgets or betrays." 

"That was what? Six months, ten months before I met 
Sarah?" whispered Don in wonder. "She never said anything. Not 
then, not to this very day." 

"Now you tell me how the hell I was supposed to call that 
man in here and accuse him of treason to his face without any 
proof at all? Based on nothing more than a funny feeling, a 
nagging baseless suspicion?" asked Morgan. "What if I was 
wrong? Worse, what if I was right? What was I supposed to tell 
Sarah?" 

"So you put it off. You put it off for almost forty years. 
Until Trudy Greiner came back and you couldn't put it off any 
more, and then you dumped it onto me," said Don. 

"Yes," said Morgan. "I put it off until Trudy Greiner came 
back and I couldn't put it off any more, and then I dumped it 



Harold Covington 

onto you. It is the only act of cowardice I have ever committed in 
my life. For what it's worth, I'm damned sorry about it." 

"Why me?" 

"Sarah will forgive you for taking Corey from her," said 
Morgan. "I'm not sure she'll ever forgive me." 

"And now I get to go home and tell her," said Don wearily, 
standing up to go. Morgan stood up as well. 

"I'll come with you," he said. "I'll do it." 

"I'd rather you didn't, Mr. President," said Don. "When I 
am given an assignment I prefer to carry it out to the end. 
Myself. You're wrong, by the way. Sarah is still a soldier after all 
these years, a Volunteer, and she knows this vicious life we have 
lived inside out. She is also your daughter and a very wise and 
compassionate woman. You're wrong about her. She will forgive 
you. But will Trudy Greiner ever forgive you? Now that's another 
story entirely." 



The woman was small and trim, her hair thin and white, 
and her slight figure on the concrete seemed dwarfed and tiny 
against the soaring height of Mount Shasta on the northern 
horizon. She wore a subdued and businesslike skirt and jacket, 
and sensible shoes. Although she had to rely occasionally on a 
cane, she walked with calm and deliberate steps across the open 
bridge at Mountain Gate, California and for the first time in 
more than thirty years, she stepped onto the soil of the 
Northwest American Republic. She was calm. She had made her 
peace with God and composed herself for death. 

It was barely past eight o'clock in the morning when 
Gertrude Greiner began what she felt would surely be her last 
walk on earth. As she passed the customs inspection station over 
which the green, white and blue Tricolor snapped in the wind, a 
single Civil Guard in full dress khaki uniform stood to attention 
smartly and gave her the open-palmed National Socialist salute. 



The Hill of the Ravens 

She stepped off the bridge onto the white side of the border 
where she saw the long lines of men in SS dress black tunics with 
silver piping, spit-shined jackboots and coalscuttle helmets 
gleaming, white-gloved hands bright on immaculate rifles at 
parade rest. They were lined up on either side of the ancient 
highway leading to the Northwest, toward Home. There was total 
silence. Behind the ranks of the Special Service were vans from 
the Northwest Broadcasting Authority and a number of the 
foreign media who were authorized to report the news from the 
Republic. Their cameras were rolling, but no one was saying 
anything. They all seemed to be watching something. 

Trudy hesitated briefly, dazed, completely 
uncomprehending,. She had envisioned this moment for years. 
She had resigned herself to arrest and then God only knew what 
kind of ordeal before the end. She, of all people, knew what the 
men who had made this land and raised that green, white and 
blue banner into the sky were capable of. But whatever she had 
expected, it was not this. Had she walked into the middle of 
some kind of 10/22 parade or commemoration? She walked 
down the center of the road towards whatever awaited her. As 
she walked an officer somewhere shouted a crisp order, and on 
both sides of her the SS men snapped the rifles up, bayonets 
fixed, and hundreds of white-gloved hands presented arms at the 
military salute. Trudy Greiner suddenly saw a group of people 
step out in front of her. There were nine of them, and she knew 
them all, They were older and grayer now, and even at a distance 
their faces seemed to her to be filled with a portion of the 
sadness she had known for so many years. Crazy old Bible- 
thumping Joe with his heavy spectacles. That short fat old guy, 
could that possibly be the buff and powerful young Frank 
Palmieri? Drago's moustache she recognized at once, white as it 
was. And Brit McCanless, still tall and straight, her braided hair 
down to her waist, yes, that was her, despite the years. That had 
to be Ed standing at her side. Big Bill in his camouflage. Lars 
and Dave in naval dress blue. At their head stood a tall old man 
with a white beard and a grim face. Him she recognized 



Harold Covington 

immediately. She walked forward resolutely and stared up at 
him. "Hello, John," she said, ready to die. 

"Hello, Trudy," he said. Tears were streaming down the 
old man's face into his beard. He took a small velvet box from 
his pocket. His voice quavered. "I believe I have something of 
yours." He opened the box and took out the medal of the War of 
Independence. He leaned over and pinned it onto her bodice. 

"Welcome, my comrade and sister," he said, his voice 
cracking. "Welcome Home!" 



The Hill of the Ravens 



The Foggy Dew 



Harold Covington 



The Foggy Dew 



When through the glen I drove again. 

My heart with grief was sore. 
For I'd parted with those valiant men 

Who I never would see more. 

But to and fro in my dreams they go, 

And I kneel and pray for you. 

For slavery fled! O glorious dead! 

When you fell in the Foggy Dew! 



The Hill of the Ravens 



XI. 



One key figure in the drama was missing from the 
dramatic and historic scene at the Mountain Gate border 
crossing. The man most responsible for bringing it about. 

On that Independence Day morning, Don Redmond stood 
hundreds of miles away on a hillside, at the wrought iron gate of 
the Ravenhill National Monument. Most of his family were at 
home getting ready for the traditional bonfire, barbecue and 
marksmanship contests. Cindy El was shooting that afternoon in 
the city of Olympia open competition with an AK-47 Don had 
restored by hand in his workshop, while Matt Redmond, home 
on leave, was shooting with his army-issue weapon as a 
freelance. Don had a twenty-credit side bet with Matt that Cindy 
El would beat him. Matt had taken the bet, but Don could tell 
with amusement that Matt was sweating. Cindy was damned 
good. Eight year-old John was delightedly plinking away at Little 
Willie with a school-issued .22 on his playground, trying to pop 
the little pig when he peeped out from behind the armored 
briefcase of his attorney. Sergeant Hennie Nel had drawn station 
duty for the day but he and his wife would be joining the 
Redmond family that night for dinner. 

Sarah had understood why Don wanted to be here today, 
but she had been a bit surprised by his choice of company. 
Beside Don stood his teen-aged daughter Eva. "I've never been 
here before." she said. 



Harold Covington 

"I am ashamed to say that neither have I." her father told 
her. "It's one of those things I always meant to do, and yet 
somehow or other I just never found the time. I should have 
found the time. Evie. We all need to find the time. We'll all come 
back here one day for a picnic," promised Don. "I just wanted to 
see the place on this one day, when this... this terrible thing that 
happened is going to be righted, insofar as it ever can be righted. 
I suppose in some way I want to let them know that maybe they 
can rest a bit easier now. An old comrade of theirs is Coming 
Home today. Many, many years too late, but she's Coming Home. 
Better late than never. Dear God. I hope it's better late than 
never!" The front of the monument read: 

To those who shall come after: from the Time of Struggle, we greet 

you. 

This hallowed ground is dedicated to the glorious and everlasting 

memory of the 52 heroes of the Northwest Volunteer Army, here fallen 

in battle against the enemies of all humanity. May their names live 

forever in the hearts and minds of the Folk. 

Below that was the date of the fatal ambush. On a bronze 
plaque at the base of the monument was the Roll of Honor. Don 
walked up to foot of the obelisk hand in hand with his daughter, 
and quietly read the names of the dead out loud. 

Vol. James G. Armstrong Vol. Arne Ericsson 

Vol. John W. Bell Vol. John R. Forster 

Vol. Anne D. Bonnar Vol. Marguerite E. Frick 

Vol. William F. Books Vol. Walter F. Gottschalk 

Vol. RoelofW. Botha Vol. Alexander V Ivanoff 

Vol. Samuel F. Collingwood Vol. Daniel R. Jardine 

Vol. Anthony T. Carlisi Vol. Wayne C. Jones 

SGT. Carol B. Dumas Vol. Douglas M. Kaye 

Vol. Andrew M. Elliot Vol. Gina C. LaFreniere 



The Hill of the Ravens 



Vol. Corrado A. Manfredi 
Vol. Jurgen G. Meiss 
Vol. Wilhelm A. Meiss 
Vol. Donald A. McAlpine 
Vol. James D. McCracken 
Vol. Richard R. McDougall 
Vol. Angus S. McGaskill 
Vol. Lewis M. McPherson 
SGT. Casimir G. Ostrovski 
Vol. Leigh Anne Pierce 
Vol. James D. Purdue 
SGT. Martin A. Quayle 
Vol. Peter C. Randolph 
Vol. Susan Y. Randolph 
Vol. Hans G. Reichert 
Vol. Henri N. Rembert 
Vol. Archibald M. Robertson 



Vol. Catherine L. Robertson 
Vol. Heinrich U. Rotenburg 
Vol. Silva P. Tagliagamba 
CMDT. Thomas J. Murdock 
Vol. Patrick C. Murphy 
Vol. Karen J. Martinelli 
Vol. Donald G. Maxwell 
Vol. Maxim F. Menzhinski 
SGT. Ronald G. Nolan 
Vol. Jennifer C. O'Donnell 
Vol. Myles F. X. O'Donnell 
Vol. Craig J. O'Neill 
Vol. Michael L. Osterlina 
Vol. Heather M. Thomas 
Vol. John C. Williams 
Vol. Johann F. Wortmann 
LT. Melanie A. Young 



Slowly the two of them walked around the four-sided obelisk. 
On each side, there were engraved words of honor and 
commemoration. "One side for the Christians, one for the Old 
Believers, and one for the National Socialists," sighed Don. "It's as if 
even in death, we couldn't leave them to rest, their sacrifice accepted 
and treasured by all as a common heritage. We had to squabble like 
jackals over who would get the kudos from their memory." 

"But I don't see it like that, Dad," said Eva. "They are all noble 
words, no matter what tradition of our race they come from. It's like 
everyone wanted to lay a wreath on their graves." On the left side of the 
obelisk, the Christians had inscribed: 



Be thou strong and of a good courage: for unto 

this people shalt thou divide for an inheritance the 

Land, which I swore unto their fathers to give them. 

— Joshua 1:6 



Harold Covington 

On the reverse, words from an ancient saga: 

Here do I see my father and my mother 

Here do I see my sisters and my brothers. 

Here do I see the line of my people back to the beginning. 

Lo, they do call to me. They bid me to take my place among them 

In the hall of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever. 

On the right side of the marble pinnacle, beneath a 
wreathed swastika, the National Socialists had imprinted not a 
passage from Mein Kampf as might have been expected, but two 
simple lines from the Anabasis of Xenophon. 

"You will know that strength and weapons alone do not always 
prevail in battle. When an army is stronger in soul, then their enemies 

cannot withstand them. " 

"Look, Dad!" said Evie, pointing skyward. Don looked up 
and saw that a large black feathered form was perched on top of 
the obelisk, a beaked and beady-eyed face looking down on them 
imperturbably. 

"Well, I always figured there must be some reason they 
call this spot Ravenhill." Don turned to his daughter and spoke. 
"You know, they say ravens live a long, long time. Wonder if that 
old black fellow was here back then, when it happened? 

"Evie, one night a few weeks ago you asked me a question. 
You wanted to know the truth about what happened. Jesus, what 
can I tell you about that whole time? It's just something that 
happened. It happened, Evie. It all happened. It is now something 
that was, and something that is. It was a war, and like all wars it 
was a hell that can only be known by those who lived through it. 
The glory, the terror, the good and the bad, the pride and the 
disgrace, the fire, the ice, the mud, the steel and the shit, the 
laughter and the blood, the courage and the nobility, the 
cowardice and the just plain get-me-through-this-and-I-shall- 



The Hill of the Ravens 

not-sin-again-O-God. It was terrible beyond belief. But it was all 
part and parcel of one mighty, irresistible event in the affairs of 
men, and when such things happen it's like a volcanic eruption. 
The lava flows and destroys all in its path, but eventually it cools 
and then the lava fields grow green with life. What you must 
always remember is that all in all, that event was a good thing, 
Evie, a great and wonderful and magical and blessed thing. Like 
all that is ultimately good, it has an element of tragedy and 
horror and sadness, because those aspects of life are all part of 
the process whereby good must overcome evil in this world. The 
time will come, as you grow older, when you learn more about 
that time. What you learn may horrify and disturb you. War 
does. But you will learn that sometimes war can uplift and 
inspire men and women to such things as heroism, idealism, and 
nobility of the soul. When that time comes, honey, I want you to 
remember this day and I want you to remember these names 
here, because what is important is what you will find here, not 
what anyone in other times and places may speak of us. 
Whatever you may come to think of me, of Tori and John Corbett 
and all of us who lived through that terrible epoch, I want you to 
remember the sacrifice that these people made on this hill on 
that summer morning. These names, these souls who lived and 
died so that you and your brothers and sisters might be at all, 
and so that you could have some kind of meaningful life in this 
world." 

"Dad, you know what I feel right now?" she asked. 

"Mmmm?" 

"I feel blessed," said Evie. 

"Eh?" 

"I am coming to understand now how incredibly lucky I've 
been," said Eva. "Lucky to be born here and not somewhere else, 
and to be born now instead of fifty years ago. My future is bright 
and shining and clean, because you and Mom and Tori and Papa 
John did what had to be done. You fought against the Jews, and 
you beat the bastards. And the gods have smiled on me. I have a 
journey to make now, through life. I come here and I find that 



Harold Covington 

these people here, people that I never knew and never heard of 
by name, have already paid my fare. Your name could have been 
on a plaque like this. Mom's name could be there. Papa John's 
name might have been there. Aunt Tori's name might have been 
there. But you're not there. You have been here with me, all my 
life. These people here, those names you just read, they died so 
that you could be here for me and for Allan and Cindy El and all 
of us... I... I just don't know what to say to them, to their spirits." 
Eva was quietly crying. 

"They don't want you to say anything, honey," said her 
father. "That was always our fault, back in the old days. We said, 
when we should have done. We were what the Irish called 
whiskey priests. We knew what was right. We just didn't do it. 
But then one day, for reasons no one has yet figured out, we 
decided to do instead of to say. Now these people who lie here, 
they want you to do, to live, and to be, in whatever strength or 
weakness or joy or sadness or triumph or failure or just plain life 
comes to be your lot. For over a century long past, some very evil 
people conspired to make sure that you would never have that 
chance, that a white girl like you would never even exist in this 
year. But like you said, we beat the bastards. We paid a price. 
You see part of that price before you, but you mustn't feel bad or 
sad about it. They gave up their lives so that you could have 
yours, so that you could walk this earth. After you they want 
your children and your grandchildren to live and to be. That's 
why we did it, Evie. That's why we did it all. Now, they want us 
to leave this place and get on with it. They were then, and we 
have built them this monument, and it is fitting and just that we 
do so. But they are of the past. This hallowed place is theirs for 
all time, but all the world from now on is yours. Your day is yet 
to come. You and your brothers and sisters have got a whole 
wonderful future ahead of you, and I'm kind of curious to see 
how it plays out. So let's go home and start writing one more 
chapter in the long, long history of this wonderful world we Men 
of the West have made, eh? You have a clean slate, Evie, thanks 



The Hill of the Ravens 

to those whose names you see before you. It's time for you to 
start writing on it." 

After Don and Eva got into their car and drove off, the 
monument grounds were empty, except for the SS sentry on 
guard at the tourist booth. 

The raven shivered his wings, rising silently into the air 
from the granite. Then with sudden speed he rose higher and 
higher, soaring into the cold clear sky. For a time the ancient 
messenger was visible as a black spot against the blue. Then he 
was gone. 

Below, the Land remained. 



H. A. Covington 



About the Author 



In this grim and impressive novel, H. A. Covington has 
created a chilling glimpse into a future America seventy years or 
so down the road, as the 22 nd Century approaches. It is an 
America torn and riven by violence, fascism, racial and cultural 
division, and political Balkanization and fragmentation. In 
short, an America that yet could come to be. Covington has 
already attained a kind of underground cult status with his ten 
previous novels. 



k i* morning ill AflKftC*, many ycara in the future. Ak die 22nd century 
.i|i::r:-:iL l».- iJiu t 1 1 ij-..i Scaiei jiiJ Canada ban hc.-.i iktfliuuJ bj Mr .ind 
upheaval iJi nl hate broken up into separate ethnic. racial and political enclaves. 
On the cast coast a crumbling, b.mknupl and tottering United States govern men I 
sull holds a weak and impmenl s*iiy OW a rugged toltectiofl of (altered stales 
and eW«, fell life is chaotic and plagued with nover 1 ;', violence, and desperation. 
The entire Southwest, begtortrftg with IV-na* -m.l cxiendsnp *es*»ard to southern 
California and north m far as ljiah, has become die Spanish- speakin d Mexican 
siate of A/iliiij. And in the Pacific Northwest, from northern California cm up in 
Alaska, a brutal fascist and while suprcrnucisl dictalyr>hip rule* (he Northwest 
American Republic. 

Colonel Donald Redmnnd of the Raieju of Slate Security (BOSS) is- one 
of i !-..■ Northwest EcpubhVs most ruthless and skillful potitic-al policemen. Thai On a 
hriphi October morning he is called into the office of the Slate President, where he is 
given a lop-scocl assignment. A skefcUifi from the bloody and treacherous davs of 



the re-T-Hilutu >n a^anr^t Aiivncais jIiwL loCflWrjSC ln'iii ikmN. - !. jiuK'rie i*: [he iihtii 
ranrfully guarded Mttt sufmrcssetl mystejie* of ihat rv\Litutitm may become jmtAw 
k.m ■'■■ II i I ■< Una k^ii: hidden uuih may undermine the ray mom! and political 
fouadabocs of 1he while supremacy. BfiHt \ Mnciii's hie hiings in the- hulumtv.''. but 
pns^ihh even the fate a or' u continent ^is well, as l>jnuld Redmond and his partner 
Stnseant Ncl plnupe 3ffl"lhe fww :u»l seek for die answer who hettayed the Olympic 
l ; l}mjiColwnri. -"---I **Tj ' 

In rhcHirJiU the Kattiu, ttiergflHadctll KwdiA H, A. CoviBgMl infers 

u- ,i sinm and chilling v'tv* vt a lull"* "hac may yrt domic to he. 



(Isijtetifeg